


Holiday Blues Part Three

by kasviel



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasviel/pseuds/kasviel
Summary: The third and final part of "Holiday Blues".
Kudos: 1





	1. A Bit Of Luck

[March 17, 2015]

Spring was slow to warm and quick to storm that year. March roared in like a lion and there was no sign of the lamb yet. Early greenery was washed out of existence by heavy rains, and the city was pummeled by strong gusts of wind. Bruce woke very early this morning to the sound of the wind howling and a blast of chilly air. He sat up and stretched, glanced down at the bed.

Next to Bruce, District Attorney Harvey Dent shivered in his sleep. Bruce pulled the blankets over him, and climbed out of bed. He found the open window and shut it. Next to it was an ash tray littered with cigarette butts. Harvey must have forgotten to shut the window after opening it for a late night smoke. Bruce dumped the ashes in a garbage can with a distasteful snort. He wished that Harvey hadn't taken up the filthy habit, but had given up telling him to quit it. A lot of things about the DA had changed since he lost his wife, Gilda Dent, last December. At times, Harvey was like a completely different person. The one constant of their relationship was was how much Bruce worried about him.

Bruce was an early riser, so he did not return to sleep. He missed having Alfred Pennyworth there to prepare him morning tea, not the servitude but his company, but his butler was still living in Wayne Manor. Since becoming Harvey's lover, Bruce was spending more time in his private suite on the top floor of the luxurious Gotham Regal hotel. Harvey behaved strangely when they stayed at his place; Bruce suspected this was due to the fact that he had been raised by his abusive father there, and also had memories of living with Gilda haunting the walls. Though Harvey often took jabs at Bruce's “ritzy damn” suite, he was most comfortable staying there with Bruce. Bruce was even considering having Alfred move into one of the rooms on the same floor for the time being. He was loathe to go back to Wayne Manor and leave Harvey alone in the city these days.

Bruce showered and dressed, then sat to wait for Harvey to wake, checking his phone for the news and messages while he did. The day dawned gray and morose. Not exactly the perfect backdrop for festivities. When Harvey awoke and glanced out the window, he seemed to be of the same opinion. He blearily barged into the bathroom grumbling, and was not much happier when he emerged. He had showered, but had only put on one of the plush hotel robes. Bruce ordered room service for them both, and they were soon seated at the small table by the kitchen/dining room window. Harvey downed black coffee rapidly, gazing out at the ugly day.

“I'm not goin' anywhere,” he announced once fortified by breakfast.

“Harvey, don't start,” Bruce sighed.

“They can shove their parade,” Harvey said. “The fuck is there to celebrate?”

“The St. Patrick's Day Parade is important to Gotham, especially to the police force,” Bruce said. “It will look bad if you don't show up. All you have to do is say a few words about the holiday, have a few beers, and go home. It won't be that bad.”

“Waste of fuckin' time, all these fuckin' _holidays_ ,” Harvey spat the word. “I'm not goin'. I'm gonna go down to the GCPD where the real cops who know what real work is will be, and I'm gonna work on the case.”

Bruce knew better than to argue with Harvey when he was in the depths of fury. No matter how hard he tried, Harvey's extreme moods were impossible to break, they had to be waited out. The two men had almost come to blows when Bruce refused to stop battling his dark side one time. Out of all the difficult men Bruce had been with, Harvey was the strongest-willed. Bruce was tempted to confront his demons once and for all, but he feared for Harvey's mental health. Instead of fighting for total control, Bruce had learned to be patient with him. Hence, today he waited until breakfast was eaten and Harvey was dressed to return to the subject.

“You only have to be there for an hour,” Bruce said. “I'll go with you.”

“Yeah, because _you_ don't have anything better to do,” Harvey scowled. “ _You_ may like playing detective and stalking the precinct, but _you_ aren't a cop, you aren't a prosecutor, you aren't anything more than a bored rich boy! I've got a hell of a lot to do, working on Maroni's case has been like pulling teeth! I don't have time to waste!”

“Neither does Gordon, and he'll be there,” Bruce said. “At least do it for him, Harvey.”

Harvey's resolve faltered. He turned his face with an annoyed 'tch'. Bruce wished that Harvey respected him as much as he respected Gordon, but he knew that was impossible. Harvey saw Jim Gordon as a father figure. Gordon was the only man in Gotham that Harvey was careful not to disappoint.

“Come on, Harvey, let's go,” Bruce said. “Get it over with.”

Harvey stood with his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed deeply. Despite the anger that was more and more often imprinted on his face, he was looking better. He had gained his weight back and put it to good use in the hotel gym, leaving his figure trim and hard with muscle. His face had matured from the trauma, but it only chiseled his handsome features to perfection. Beneath the lank dark brown hair and long eyelashes, though, there was a stormy look in his dark blue eyes that Bruce worried about. He resembled a fallen angel lately, rather than his media nickname “Apollo”.

Bruce gripped his shoulder and kissed him. Harvey did not react. He physically withdrew when he was in a dark mood, and became completely inaccessible. When not in the mind to be wildly passionate with Bruce, he did not touch him at all. The back and forth was unpredictable. As of yet, he had found no way of controlling Harvey Dent at all. As he had learned with Floyd Lawton and Robert Halloran, Bruce was something of a control freak; unpredictability irritated and worried him.

“Show up, wear some green, give a short speech,” Bruce said. “Maybe you'll pick up a little luck.”

“Luck?” Harvey echoed. He raised his head, a strange look flashing in his eyes. “Luck, huh? Ha. Yeah, that's it, luck.”

Harvey went back to the bedroom. Bruce thought he was going to put on something green, but he returned unchanged. His hand moved slightly, and something flashed silver in the air. He caught it. Bruce stifled a groan.

“Yeah, let's go with luck,” Harvey said. “It's St. Patrick's Day, after all. We'll see how strong the luck o' the Irish is. Heads, I'll go to the damn parade. Tails, I won't. How's that?”

Bruce didn't say anything. He knew the sad history of that silver dollar. It once belonged to Harvey's father, and was double-sided. His father used to cruelly flip it before punishing Harvey, saying that if it came up 'tails', he would not hurt him. This impossible game had affected Harvey very deeply, and he still could not part with the symbol of his torture. The only reason the coin now had a 'tails' side at all was that one side had been burned in the explosion that had killed Harvey's wife and scarred Harvey's left hand.

Harvey had been depending on that coin to make decisions for the past month. As of yet, no harm had come from the decisions he delegated to a coin toss, _luckily_ , but he was relying on it for important matters more often now. Bruce had tried to take the coin from him once, and Harvey had actually attacked him. His attachment to it was pathological, and Bruce did not know how to fight it.

The coin was flipped effortlessly into the air by a gesture Harvey had perfected long ago. His thumbnail hitting the metal made a small ringing sound. Both men watched the silver dollar fly through the air and fall. Harvey caught it and flipped it onto the back of his hand. Despite his disapproval, Bruce came up beside him to see the result. Harvey uncovered the coin, and scowled furiously: it had come up heads.

“Guess all those four-leaf clover balloons worked or something,” Harvey growled. He pocketed the coin, and his furious mood dissolved instantaneously. “All right. Guess I better find something green to wear.”

“I suppose you should.”

Bruce kissed him, turned him to the bedroom where their clothes were, and gave him a pushing swat on the bottom. The smack was a little harder than he had intended. Harvey gave him a curious look, but said nothing. When he returned from the bedroom, he was wearing forest green sweater over his white shirt. Bruce put an arm around his waist and kissed him, trying to draw him out. Harvey kissed him back, affectionate as ever. His dark side had retreated.

They put on their coats and left the suite. By the time they were outside, Alfred had arrived with the car. He always drove into the city to be available during the day. They got into the car and drove down to City Hall, where Harvey would be greeting the parade-goers with a small speech.

“Harvey, you don't need that coin, you know,” Bruce ventured during the ride. “Shouldn't you just let it go?”

Harvey said nothing. Bruce turned his face from the window towards his own. Harvey looked embarrassed. _I have to remember that he can't help it,_ Bruce thought. _I can't be too hard on him. He hasn't been mentally well since losing his wife._

“I can't, Bruce,” Harvey confessed. He removed the coin from his pocket and turned it this way and that. “I don't know why I've kept it all these years. I just threw it in a box with all my dad's other things when he died. I wasn't thinking much back then. I was too relieved, and too disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yeah. Not that he died, but that he died hating me, and that I still hated him,” Harvey said. “I did think that I should have buried him with this coin when I first found it. I also wanted to throw it away. I just couldn't. Then Gilda found it last year, and with everything going on, it just felt right having it. My dad always played a game I could only lose, and that's what the Falcones and Maronis and all of them having been doing with me now.”

“But you have Maroni,” Bruce said. “You'll win this eventually. You _can_ win this time.”

“Maybe.” Harvey looked down at the coin. He turned it from heads to tails. “Maybe not. If I do win, hell, maybe then I'll throw this thing away. If I lock them all up, then maybe I can finally throw this damn thing away.”

“Can I keep it for you until then?” Bruce offered. “I'll put it in a vault, somewhere safe.”

“No.” Harvey pocketed the coin again. “Sorry.”

Bruce leaned back, exhaling through his nose. Though his love for Harvey was as strong as ever, their relationship had not been what he had expected. He had overestimated his ability to deal with difficult men before, but never this badly. The truth was that he did not know _how_ to love Harvey Dent. Between navigating his moods and trying to break his guards down, Bruce was exhausted and frustrated. When Harvey shut him out, there was no getting through to him. When Harvey shut him down, there was no helping him. Unlike previous lovers, this man was more than ready to meet even a hint of violence with stronger violence; many times, Bruce had the feeling he _wanted_ an all-out fight.

_When Bobby and even Floyd Lawton broke, they broke completely,_ Bruce recalled. _They each had a part of them that was still juvenile, and they were relieved to have someone comfort that raw part of their psyches. They let themselves become vulnerable once they knew that I would be sympathetic, that I wouldn't mock or scorn them for it. Harvey must know that I wouldn't do those things to him, but he still refuses to let me in. Every time he's on the verge of total vulnerability, he gets overcome by rage. He defends himself with that rage, shields himself from his pain, blocks out my attempts to get past it, every single time. Half the time, he forces himself to act more like a friend than a lover, as if he's humiliated by our relationship. A part of him probably is. I doubt he's just in the closet to protect his career and avoid the press. I feel like we only have half a relationship, but I wanted so much more from him. I wish he would just let me love him._

Alfred parked the car a block down from City Hall. Harvey knew that being a friend of Bruce Wayne's was good for his poll numbers, but he refused to be seen “relying” on him in public. Bruce knew the man was simply too proud to be seen taking a ride from a billionaire, but he let him have his way. He let Harvey have his way in a lot of things, and the habit was beginning to irritate him.

“Time to go play politician,” Harvey scowled.

Before he opened the car door, Bruce pulled him into a kiss. Harvey hesitated, but gave into Bruce's demanding affection. Bruce leaned him back against the smooth leather seats, holding his wrists down. In moments like this, he forgot that Bruce was younger than him, richer than him, more sheltered than him. It would gall him later, but he found himself giving into Bruce's strength and that uncanny sense of command. He wondered how a spoiled guy like Wayne managed to be so forceful at times. Further surprising him, Bruce gave him another hard love tap.

“Play nice, Harvey,” he told him.

“You're telling _me_ what to do, Bruce?”

“Maybe it's about time I did,” Bruce said. “You would be better off listening to me than to the flip of a coin.”

“We're all fortune's fools, Bruce,” Harvey said. “I'd rather be that than a billionaire's puppet.”

“Why do you always have to bring up my status?” Bruce asked. “Harvey, I'm not trying to do anything but love you. I'm not working you for some agenda. I'm not using you for entertainment. I love you, and—hey.”

Harvey had been looking out the window. Bruce held his face in both hands. Harvey was uncomfortable being trapped beneath him. One thing he could not easily dismiss about Bruce Wayne was his physical power. He knew Gotham's favorite heir could match him in a fight, and he resented it. He had thought that he at least had the advantage of a street brawler's prowess over Bruce; finding out otherwise pissed him off. He did not like the way Bruce was prone to swat his backside, either. There was something in Bruce that promised domination, and it worried Harvey. It was bad enough that Bruce never let him be on top. A part of him admired the man's strengths, but another part hated being unmanned by him.

“Look at me, Harvey,” Bruce said, as if Harvey had a choice. “All I want is to love you, to help you. You said that you wanted to be with me. You said that you _needed_ me, Harvey, that you couldn't be alone. So why do you keep fighting me away?”

“I'm not,” Harvey said. “I'm here, right?”

There was an alarming conflict of emotions in the words, in his eyes. At once, he was ashamed, defiant, yearning, and resigned. Bruce held his beautiful face in his hands a moment more, trying to decipher which emotion reigned, but he could not tell. Harvey seemed to feel all these contrasting emotions equally and fully. It was no wonder the man was perpetually anguished by confusion, his behavior swinging violently from one extreme to the other.

_When you practice law, no matter which side you're on, you have to have the capacity to see **both** sides, _Bruce thought. _On some level, you have to understand the arguments for and against the defendants, and the defendants themselves. As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.” Harvey may have a first-rate intelligence, but Fitzgerald didn't account for a person that can simultaneously **believe** two opposed ideas equally. Is that madness, then? _

“Are you here, Harvey?” Bruce asked, genuinely bewildered. “And do you even want to be here?”

“Yeah. No. I don't know,” Harvey sighed. “I need to be here. Isn't that enough?”

“I suppose it will have to be.”

Bruce leaned down and kissed him. Harvey's doubts were soothed away by the intimacy. He wrapped his arms around Bruce tightly, and they fell against each other across the seats. _It's true,_ Harvey realized, _I_ do _need to be with Bruce right now. All alone in my father's house, the house where Gilda and I spent our wedding night, I was going crazy. I was going to kill myself. I have no doubt about that. I was going to die. That wouldn't be so bad, but I've got hell to give that mafia scum. I've got debts to pay. I can't go down before I repay Maroni, and Falcone, too, and Holiday. I know Gilda started it, but this never would have gone so far if whoever the asshole is didn't take up the Holiday 'brand'. I'll get them. I'll get all of them. Until then, I've got to do whatever I can to survive. And Bruce, hell, I don't think he'll_ let _me go down. I don't like relying on a guy like him, but …_

“Screw it,” Harvey murmured the rest of his thought out loud. He kissed Bruce hard, biting his lip, and kissed him again. “Screw it. I do love you, Bruce.”

Their profiles brushed. Bruce looked at him skeptically. He looked very young, Harvey noticed, with his black hair fallen over his forehead that way. There were many layers of defense in Bruce's light blue eyes. Though Harvey often mocked his youth and wealth, he knew damn well that Bruce had been hurt many times over. Sometimes, Bruce looked as world-weary as Harvey felt. _So that's where he gets that strength from,_ Harvey thought. _Guess he's been forged in his own crucibles._

“Look, Bruce, it's just hard for me to, you know, to have to depend on anyone,” Harvey said. “My dad, he had very specific ideas about how a man should act, should _be_ , and he beat every last one of those ideas into me. Thing is, I didn't even disagree with most of them. Bisexuality has always been a problem for me. Physically, I like it, but mentally, I don't. You understand?”

“No,” Bruce said honestly. “I can't understand it, because I never had to face that. By the time I knew what I was, my parents were dead. I don't think they would have cared, but I don't have reality to deter that illusion. But, for what it's worth, I'm sorry, and he was wrong.”

“Last year, so much shit happened,” Harvey said. “Ha. Understatement of all time, right? Thing is, I've been having to rely on a lot of people. I relied on Jim for my cases, on Batman for the arrests, on you for your friendship, and … on Gilda. Ever since I became DA, I feel like I've become _less_ of a man instead of more, and that's just not how I pictured it. It's tough, Bruce. I'm not the man I thought I would become.”

“You're a _good_ man, Harvey,” Bruce said, gripping his shoulder. “That's why it has been so hard. Don't you see that?”

“I don't know,” Harvey muttered. “Sometimes I just think it's all because I deserve the bad stuff. That I did something sometime to earn it.”

“Don't think that,” Bruce told him. “Don't give in to them, Harvey. The Falcones and Maronis of the world would want you to believe that. Don't give them what they want.”

Harvey had taken out the silver dollar again. He ran it over his knuckles idly, watching it turn from side to side. Bruce was beginning to despise that coin.

“When my parents died, the world tried to make me believe they deserved it, _I_ deserved it,” Bruce said. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “We were too rich, they were too charitable, I was too spoiled—people would say anything, anything at all, just to make themselves feel like they deserved to live while my parents didn't. It's a survival mechanism, in a way; people like to believe everything is connected by cause and effect, some divine system of fateful retribution. People feel safer if they can point to a reason why a life deserved or needed to be cut short.”

“Bullshit,” Harvey snorted. “There's no such thing as fate.”

“No, Harvey, there's not,” Bruce said. He put a hand on Harvey's, stopping the rotation of the coin. “And it's not all random chance, either. Joe Chill made a conscious decision to rob my parents, and he made a decision to shoot—twice. If he had made a third choice to shoot me, I wouldn't be here with you right now.”

“Lucky.”

“No, not luck, decision, Harvey, choice,” Bruce stressed. “You chose to stand for something good, to try to make this city a better place, and the criminals chose to make you suffer for it. Maroni _chose_ to set a bomb off in your home just because of some misguided theory about the Holiday killer.”

Harvey's hand curled into a tight fist beneath Bruce's hand. His knuckles were taut, very hard. Bruce tried to rub the tension out, but Harvey didn't even feel him.

“None of this is your fault, Harvey,” Bruce said. “You've only chosen to do the right thing. It's the ones that chose evil that are the problem.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you're right.”

Harvey pocketed the coin. He blew out a sigh and the turmoil left his face. He smiled tiredly at Bruce. Bruce kissed him again.

“So let's just go to the GCPD right now,” Harvey said. “Make the right choice.”

“I'll see you at the parade, Mr. District Attorney.”

“I had to try.”

Harvey faced the car door with another sigh. He frowned very deeply, then smoothed his face into neutrality. Bruce knew from experience that by the time he was in public, he would be wearing a dashing smile. The falsity of that smile and the pain it hid broke Bruce's heart.

When Harvey was gone, Alfred rolled down the car's privacy glass between the front and back of the car. He and Bruce shared a look in the rear-view mirror. Bruce cleared his throat and went about smoothing his rumpled suit.

“He's walking a thin line, Alfred,” Bruce said. “We all are these days, but his is the thinnest. I wish that he would take his medication, but he gets enraged if I even mention it.”

“If I may, sir, Mr. Dent is not like your previous lovers.”

“I've noticed,” Bruce said ruefully. “They were boys. Bobby is still a child in many ways, and even Floyd Lawton had some of the little boy buried deep down inside him. I couldn't control them, either, but they at least let me in. Harvey is … well, he's a man. If anything of the boy he was remains, it's locked away out of my reach. I don't mind that, really, but what worries me is that the man he is will be locked away soon, too. There's that other side of his. It's more than just a bad temper now, and it's ugly. I wish he would listen to me. I wish he would respect me more. Alfred, do you think that he would respect me more if he knew that I was Batman?”

“He very well might, but I daresay that he would also respect Batman _less_ if he knew.”

“That's Harvey,” Bruce laughed. “One step forward, one step back. I do wonder whether I should tell him, though. If I let him in, maybe he would do the same?”

“Sir, I would not recommend taking the chance.”

“But this is the same mistake that I made with Bobby,” Bruce said. “If I had trusted him with the truth from the beginning, he wouldn't have been so hurt by my lies later. I judged him to be too unstable, so I chose to lie to him instead of letting him in. He found the truth out, anyway, and so far he's been trustworthy with it. Shouldn't I take a chance on Harvey?”

“It would be a fifty-fifty chance, sir,” Alfred said. “He may just flip that coin and decide to go public with your identity.”

“No, I don't think he's that far gone,” Bruce said. “I don't know. My every instinct is telling me not to trust him, not to trust my friend, my lover. What's wrong with me, Alfred?”

“Your instincts have never been wrong before, Master Bruce.”

“But what is wrong with _me_?” Bruce wondered. “Was Bobby right about me? Am I only a sadist that thrives on controlling others? Do I even love Harvey, or do I want to save him, the way I wanted to save Floyd and Bobby? Save them? Or punish them?”

“Can it not be a blend of all those things at once, sir?” Alfred said. “After all, is that not the way you feel about Gotham City?”

“God,” Bruce swore softly. “I may be the sickest one of them all.”

“I highly doubt that, sir,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce, you are both your father's and your mother's son. Your father was a surgeon, and he devoted his life to cutting out disease as precisely and harmlessly as possible. Your mother did her best to ease the burden of suffering for the masses. You have taken it upon yourself to do both things: to excise the disease of evil from this city, and to save people from their suffering. You have his severity, and her compassion. I believe having those two sides is what drew you to Mr. Dent in the first place.”

“Kind of like being a butler and a therapist?”

“Oh, I have far more sides than two,” chuckled Alfred. “We all do, Master Bruce. However, you and Mr. Dent are prone to the extremes. That is why you are so drawn together, yet the same likeness is what causes you to clash so often.”

“That makes sense,” Bruce said. “We are too alike at times. When he's in that dark place, he's immutable. I can't break through. But I will keep trying. I have to.”

“A word of caution, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. He turned in the driver's seat to look at Bruce directly. “Despite your similarities, Mr. Dent lacks your temperance. You use your intensity, it does not use you, but Mr. Dent is the opposite. He is at the mercy of his moods the same way he is at the mercy of that coin toss he has become so fond of. For the sake of you both, remember that.”

“I will, Alfred.”

* * *

Bruce joined the crowd outside City Hall for Harvey Dent's speech. The gray day and grayer city was made brilliant by the myriad shades of green worn by the crowd. Balloons shaped like leprechauns and four-leaf clovers bobbed in the wind, some flying away to freedom high above. The green hats and jackets reminded Bruce of the Riddler. It would be impossible to pick him out of this crowd.

Once Harvey wrapped up his short holiday speech, the parade commenced. It took Harvey some time to get to the bottom of the City Hall steps to Bruce. Reporters flocked around them. Harvey was congenial, but Bruce saw the storm brewing in his inky blue eyes. Finally, most of the reporters had to go cover the parade itself, and the rest were ushered off by security.

“I wish I could get out of here,” Harvey said under his breath to Bruce. “Why'd you have to drag me out here?”

“The city deserves to share your charming company once in a while,” Bruce said. “It's good for people to know you care, Harvey.”

“But I _don't_ care,” Harvey said. “And I hate this fucking sweater, it itches like crazy.”

“But it's green.”

“I don't see you wearing anything green.”

Alfred came over from one of the stands just then. He gave Bruce a green rose boutonniere, which Bruce affixed in his jacket pocket's buttonhole. Harvey snorted.

“Roses,” he said. “Why is it always roses in this town? And why didn't you just get me a damn flower? This sweater—”

“Calm down, Harvey,” Bruce said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We can leave in less than an hour. Come on, I think you need more coffee.”

“Yeah, that would be good. And a fucking cigarette.”

“You should really give that—”

“No.”

Bruce gritted his teeth, but dropped the matter. They walked through the crowd, Harvey forced to shake hands and smile every so often. By the time they reached a cafe, Harvey was too worn out to keep from using their celebrity to get to the front of the line. He was tactful and polite about it, shaking hands until he was at the counter, where of course the servers instantly asked for his order. Soon, he and Bruce were on the street with steaming cups of coffee. They went into a narrow alley, since most of the city was a no-smoking zone. Harvey lit a cigarette, took a drag, tore the lid off his coffee, and took a long drink.

“That's better,” he said, smoke trailing from his mouth. He leaned his head back against the concrete wall and turned his face to the crowds nearby. “All these people.”

“They're just trying to have a little fun,” Bruce said. “If they didn't, they would go crazy.”

“I know,” Harvey said. “That's why Gordon and I—and Batman, I guess—do what we do, right? So that they can try to find something good about living in this damn city. I get it, Bruce, I do. I'm sorry I've been so on edge.”

“I understand,” Bruce said. “You're under a lot of pressure. I just wish—”

“That I'd stop smoking and take my meds, I know,” Harvey chuckled. “I don't need meds. As for smoking, it's just a comfort habit. I'll stop when all this Holiday mess is over and done with.”

“I'm sure Gordon has been telling himself that for years,” Bruce said. “That he'll quit once this case is over, then another one comes up … ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harvey shrugged nonchalantly. He took another drag on the cigarette, blew smoke towards Bruce. A roguish smirk curled half his lips. “You really gotta stop actin' like my father. You're younger than me.”

“Not by much, Harvey, and does it even matter?” Bruce said impatiently.

“Sure,” Harvey said mildly. “I told you, I'm not going to be told what to do by _you_.”

Bruce snatched the cigarette out of his hand, crushed it under his shoe. Harvey's eyebrows raised, but his temper remained even. He took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, flipped it open, and drew one out with his mouth. Ignoring Bruce's angry frown, he lit it, and resumed his smoke.

“You know, every time that I try to give you advice, you bring up some excuse for not taking it,” Bruce said. “Either I'm too rich or I'm too young, anything not to listen to what I'm trying to tell you. It isn't that you don't want to take advice from me, it's that you're just set on doing whatever the hell you want. Sometimes I think you do things like this simply to spite me.”

Harvey's dark eyes watched him from over the top of the coffee cup as he drank. Bruce watched him, almost wishing his temper would flare, anything for a reaction. But Harvey had calmed to his normal temperament. He drank his coffee, smoked, watched the parade go by. _Of course, he's only calm when it's the most annoying thing he can be,_ Bruce thought.

“You done?” Harvey asked. He tossed the cigarette butt to the ground. “What do you want me to say, Bruce? I haven't gotten this far by jumping whenever someone tells me to.”

“That isn't what I'm doing.”

“So what are you doing?” Harvey asked. “Or trying to do, anyway?”

“Take care of you.”

“Huh. So, the rumors are true, eh?” Harvey grinned, white teeth flashing. He walked closer. “You really are like that.”

“Like what?” Bruce asked. “What rumors?”

“You haven't heard?” Harvey snorted in amusement. “I figured that your ex, Halloran, was the one spreading them, so I thought you must know. They were blind items, but it was obviously about you. Said you're a sadist. You like punishing naughty boys. It's true, isn't it?”

Bruce flushed. Was Bobby really talking to the press about their sex life? That was strange, he had never given any indication that he wanted revenge. He made a mental note to investigate the rumors later. Harvey watched him, and took his silence for a confession.

“I thought so,” he said. “Listen, Bruce, I'm not up for any of that. A love tap here and there is one thing, but I'm not letting you play daddy with me.”

Bruce was surprised at how disappointed he was to hear that. Furthering his frustration, Harvey laughed at the thought. He leaned against the building wall beside Bruce, laughing heartily. He lit another cigarette.

“Christ, imagine!” he exclaimed. “ _Me_! Ha ha ha ha! Me, like that, with a billionaire! Oh, it's like a horrible trash romance novel! Ha ha ha! Like our being together isn't ridiculous enough!”

“That's enough, Harvey.”

“Are you hurt? I'm sorry.” Harvey stifled his mirth with effort. “Sorry, Bruce. I didn't mean it like that.”

“Yes you did.”

“Well … ”

Harvey made that gesture of his, turning his hand from palm to back. Bruce had come to see it as his 'half full, half empty' gesture. He meant it, but he didn't. _I'm getting whiplash just trying to follow his intentions, his moods,_ Bruce thought. _God, he's difficult._

“Listen, no offense, it's just not the kind of guy I am,” Harvey said. He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. “All right? Anyway, I should get back to the crowd before they find us here. Man of the people and all.”

Harvey went to leave, but Bruce reached out. He grabbed him by the wrist tightly. Harvey's cigarette fell out of his hand and he also dropped his empty coffee cup. He looked back and found Bruce's expression stern. The way his mouth turned down severely reminded Harvey of someone, but he could not place them. He tried to pull out of Bruce's grasp, but could not. Bruce's other hand took him by the shoulder, and he found himself slammed against the building wall. Bruce caged him with his arms, brought his face very close.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Harvey asked. “Not in public, Bruce, jeez.”

“Are you sure you're not just testing the rumors on purpose?” Bruce asked. “Maybe you _wanted_ them to be true. Maybe you're trying to get me to _show_ you how true they are.”

Harvey could not tell if Bruce was being serious or goading him. He had not seen Bruce this domineering before. He was partly intrigued and partly annoyed. Bruce leaned his face closer, so his mouth was at Harvey's ear.

“One of the first things I told you was that you probably deserved your office, and a spanking, remember?” he murmured to the flustered DA. “You always knew what I was like. You pursued me anyway. I wonder why?”

“That's—Don't be—”

“You know, with Halloran, I didn't exactly ask permission,” Bruce went on. “I could do it, Harvey. I think we both know that I could.”

Bruce took Harvey's shocked face by the chin and turned it so their eyes met directly. Harvey had turned crimson, and his eyes were very large. Bruce had no intention of hurting him, but he thought a small threat might take the obstinate man down a peg or two. He had to admit, being in control of the situation for once felt very good.

“When we get home tonight, I _could_ take you over my knees, pull your pants down, and spank you, Harvey,” Bruce said. “How would you like that?”

“D—Don't be ridiculous!” Harvey hissed. “And get away from me. Someone is going to see us.”

Harvey lacked his usual confidence, and he had a worried frown on his blushing face. The threat had rattled him, to Bruce's satisfaction. Bruce leaned away from him. Harvey straightened his coat, giving him a perplexed, slightly hurt look. Bruce turned him to face the street, and gave him a swat through his coat. Harvey jumped.

“Now go play nice, Harvey,” Bruce said. He risked kissing the man's cheek. “I'll see you later.”

Harvey shot Bruce a glare, and left him stiffly. He melded back into the crowd, though he remained subdued. Bruce watched him with gratification for a few minutes, then walked back to his car near City Hall. He got in, laughed to himself.

“I did not know you were one to be so entertained by parades, sir,” Alfred remarked.

“It isn't the parade,” Bruce said. “I think I might know how to handle Harvey. I just have to figure out which buttons to push.”

“Just be sure not to push him too hard, sir.”

“And not too gently, either,” Bruce mused. “But he's taken up enough of the morning. It is another holiday, after all. But before Batman can deal with that, I have to stop by the Bank of Gotham. Those papers Luis Castell had me sign rescinding my vote to disallow Carmine Falcone from joining the board have caused chaos. I need to talk to the board members and try to explain the situation.”

“Exactly how will you explain that you were under the influence of one of Ms. Isley's drugs and in the throes of false passion signed the papers for Mr. Castell? Sir?”

“I'll figure something out,” Bruce sighed. “Let's head there.”

“Very well, Master Bruce.”

“While I'm dealing with the board, I need you to look into something for me,” Bruce said. “Harvey brought up some rumors about me that have been spreading, apparently through those unsubtle 'blind item' articles. He assumed that they came from Robert Halloran, and they must have. I need to see those articles, and I'm going to need to talk to Bobby about them.”

“Mr. Halloran had his tantrums, but he never seemed to be that spiteful,” Alfred said. “Why would he start spreading gossip? What were the rumors about?”

“I have no idea why he would do such a thing,” Bruce said. “Maybe he just let a few things slip? The rumors were just about our relationship. He said that I'm—a sadist.”

Alfred did not bother denying it. They both knew that Bruce had his tendencies.

“I never should have spanked him that one time,” Bruce said. “I know better. I have more control than that. I was angry, I knew that I could, so I did. It was wrong.”

“It was not merely fetishistic bullying,” Alfred said. “He brought up your parents' murder.”

“Who doesn't?” Bruce said with a weary smile. “He wasn't even wrong about what he said. I probably will end up dying shot in an alley one day, just like my parents, but alone.”

“Master Bruce!”

“In any case, I was wrong,” Bruce said. “Maybe he's still angry about it. Although, I could have sworn he had come to fetishize it. He had bruises the last time I checked on him. I don't know. I can't tell what people want or don't want sometimes. They probably can't even tell. I'll have to apologize to Bobby, and do my best not to make the same mistake with Harvey.”

“Good luck with that, sir.”

“I almost miss Floyd Lawton,” Bruce said. “Say what you will about him, but Floyd knew himself. He was too reckless to hide behind lies or pride or childish obstinacy. He wanted me, he had me. He liked it rough, so he said he liked it rough. He wanted to be punished, so he asked to be punished.”

“He wanted to be an assassin, so he became an assassin,” Alfred added dryly.

“I know, Alfred, I know,” Bruce said. “I could never be with Floyd again. I know what he is. I only miss his simplicity. My psychology never surprised him, even if it pissed him off sometimes. He already knew why he was the way he was. I wish that he had fought it more, but at least he _knew_. Come to think of it, he might have been the most self-aware person that I've ever known. It's just a shame that his self-awareness made him think he couldn't change who he was. What a waste.”

They arrived at the Bank of Gotham and Alfred parked the car. He promised to look into the rumors, and Bruce thanked him. He got out, and Alfred watched his charge make his way through the windy day.

“Life is wasted on the living, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, though Bruce was gone. “It is only when we brush death that we see the value in living, only when we are lost to despair do we recognize the value of hope. You learned that so very early on that you've never doubted it. It is a shame that you had to learn such things that way, even if it has made you the man that you are.”

Alfred sighed and turned on the car stereo. He thought of all the times that he had waited for Thomas Wayne outside Gotham General Hospital. Thomas would speak of patients that refused further treatment with the same bafflement Bruce spoke of lovers and friends that refused his help. Alfred had explained to Thomas that there were times when a person knew their case was hopeless, when it was their time to let go. Thomas had never stopped insisting that no one should ever let go of their hope to live.

Bruce's issue was far more complicated—or was it? Alfred thought of his young master's wayward lovers, their issues and betrayals. Floyd Lawton was a poisonous love affair born of violence and Bruce's need to conquer violence. Those two opposing ideologies never had a chance of being reconciled, and Alfred was relieved that Bruce recognized this. A man weaker than Bruce might have been drawn into Floyd's devil-may-care mayhem. Thank goodness, he was gone. Harvey Dent was bullheaded and full of rage. Alfred did not like the way Bruce understood that rage, he worried that it might seep into Bruce without Bruce's realizing it. Bruce walked as thin a line as Harvey every night as Batman, perhaps thinner, given how easy it would be for Batman to cross it unscathed. Alfred worried that Bruce's love for the troublesome DA was drawing him closer to Harvey's dark side. He trusted Bruce to control himself, but he knew that struggling to fight his own darkness and Harvey's would strain him. If he lost Harvey to Harvey's inner ugliness, it would embitter him greatly. Alfred could only wait and pray that did not happen. Robert Halloran was a sad, spoiled youth that had never known what to do with his strong emotions, so he hid behind drugs and sex and parties. Of them all, Alfred thought that he was the best one for Bruce: he had been willing to be disciplined, which fulfilled Bruce's paternal urges, and Bruce's strict realism was good medicine for him. Unfortunately, the Batman had come between them. Bobby had uncovered Bruce's deepest secret by blind luck, and he had never been able to forgive Bruce for lying to him. Alfred had hope that they would someday reconcile, but for now Bobby Halloran was out of Bruce's reach.

“Can't you meet a nice boy for a change, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked the empty car. “But if you did, you would probably not even notice him.”

* * *

Bruce was surprised to find the Gotham City Bank board room empty. He checked his watch. The meeting had been scheduled to start fifteen minutes ago. Where was everyone?

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat. Bruce turned around, and froze. The man in the doorway did likewise. They stared at each other from across the room, tension rippling from one to the other. Silence chilled the empty room.

Carmine “The Roman” Falcone had joined the ranks of Bruce's many enemies. Bruce had convinced the bank owners not to give Carmine a seat on the board, using the mob boss's dirty crimes against him. Carmine saw this as a slap in the face, and vowed that Bruce would not stand in his way any longer. He had been quiet for a little while, then had orchestrated a petty little plot to get Bruce to rescind his vote. Bruce did not have all the details yet, but he had by now surmised that the Falcones had sent Assistant District Attorney Luis Castell (also their mole inside the GCPD and City Hall) after him. Bruce still found it hard to believe, but soft-spoken, intelligent Luis had obtained a drug from Pamela Isley, AKA Poison Ivy, and chemically seduced Bruce. Bruce had been totally under the man's control during their affair, and he had signed the documents rescinding his vote against Falcone when Luis asked. Selina Kyle, AKA Catwoman, had been the one to free Bruce from the poison, and Luis had fled. For what it was worth, Selina said that Luis had said he was sorry. Bruce had not been able to locate the man yet, so he could not know his reasons, if he had any. It had taken Bruce some time to figure out what Luis had done, as he had no memory of signing the documents. He realized it only when the other board members had come to him, furious that he had decided to vote for Falcone instead of sticking together with them against him. Many claimed they would also rescind their votes. Bruce could not let that happen. He did not want Falcone's dirty hands clutching any more of the city than they already did.

Bruce filled with cold fury as he stared at Falcone. He did not know or care whether it had been his or Luis's plan to drug him. The thought of being so outside himself that he could not control a single action mortified and horrified him. Luis had not only betrayed his office, the GCPD, and Bruce, he had used Bruce in every sense of the word. Bobby had needed him during that time, and Bruce had been having sex with a man he hardly knew and never chose to love. The thought almost made Bruce agree with Harvey's occasional wish that Holiday would just shoot Falcone already.

“I am surprised to see you here, Mr. Wayne. I had heard that you have already rescinded your vote,” Falcone said. He was smug, confidant that he would soon be on the board of the bank. “Where are the others?”

“I don't know.”

Falcone's confidence wavered.

“Don't you?” he asked. “What have you done? Have you been throwing more of my alleged dirt around? Do you really think that will work this time? Who would believe a hypocrite like you?”

“I haven't done anything,” Bruce said. “Have _you_?”

Falcone twitched. His face was stone and his eyes were inscrutable, but he could not control every muscle of his face. Dread darkened Bruce's mind. He crossed the room to Falcone.

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. Excuse me. I must make a call.”

Falcone turned and left the room. Bruce watched him go down the hallway and turn into the stairwell. He followed quickly, loading up a surveillance app on his phone. He put an earpiece in as he quietly came onto the stairs. Falcone was several flights below. Bruce stayed close to the wall and listened in on the mob boss's conversation.

“—you mean, 'complications'?” Falcone asked.

“ _I don't know, papa,”_ the husky female voice on the other end of the line said. _“I lost contact. I don't know what happened or where the freak is.”_

“Well, find out, Sofia,” Falcone hissed. “I am here at the bank and I refuse to be humiliated in front of Bruce Wayne again!”

“ _Bruce Wayne? I thought we took care of him. Why is he there?”_

“I thought _you_ had taken care of him, the way I thought _you_ had taken care of this!” Falcone said furiously. “I don't want to hear excuses. Just handle it.”

“ _Yes, papa.”_

Bruce exited the stairwell. He rushed from the bank and hurried back to the car. Inside, he told Alfred to drive him back to the Gotham Regal. Batman would have to get an early start today.

* * *

It took an hour to track the activities of the Bank of Gotham's board members. Batman managed to correlate enough data to conclude that each of the members had left home for the meeting, but vanished somewhere along the way. He tracked Sofia Gigante, Falcone's daughter and greatest enforcer, for the next hour, but she was equally puzzled. He did manage to gain one important piece of intelligence from her, however: the “freak” that she had mentioned was Poison Ivy.

“I thought that the old mafia families did not cooperate with the freaks,” Alfred said through Batman's comm. “Wasn't that their policy?”

“The Holiday killer has shaken things up,” Batman replied. “If Falcone thinks that Holiday is a hitman for Maroni, then he may think it's only fair to use the help of a so-called 'freak'.”

“So-called, sir?”

“They're no more freakish than any criminal, including Falcone himself,” Batman said. “I just went to Pamela Isley's shop, but there was nothing there. I did find the little laboratory where she made the drug Luis Castell used on me. She doesn't seem to be mass-producing anything, though. That must have been a one-off deal with Castell and the Falcones. I wonder why she did it? Why risk getting sent back to jail?”

“Perhaps for the money,” Alfred said. “She does like to fund eco-terrorism whenever she's not directly causing it.”

“That's true. And if Castell went to her, she might have thought it would be a boon to play nice with a dirty prosecutor.”

“Yes, there is also—Oh!”

“What is it, Alfred?”

“There is an intruder here! Hold on—”

“Alfred? Alfred!”

Batman turned the car around in one swift U-turn and headed towards the city limits. Wayne Manor was almost impregnable, and the Bat Cave below was a fortress, but he could not help worrying about Alfred. As he drove, his head spun with questions. Why would anyone attack Wayne Manor? Was it Falcone? Would he be so reckless and stupid?

_Whoever it is, they won't get away with it,_ Batman thought with a scowl. _Not my house—not my **home**._

* * *

Thankfully, Alfred came back onto the comm line before Batman arrived at Wayne Manor. He was in the Bat Cave, and safe. The house was untouched, only the grounds had been breached. Alfred informed him that there was a disturbance in the back gardens. Once he was out of the car, Batman headed there.

Under the mask, Bruce Wayne remembered how his mother used to spend hours in the gardens. She would help the master gardener tend her prized rosebushes, often coming in with freshly cut bouquets. The scent would linger upon her all day, gently blending with her perfume. Come to think of it, Bruce recalled, she had had an interest in the genetics of botany, albeit an armchair one. She and the master gardener had grown the roses in various, sometimes exotic, hues. Bruce smiled to think that she had used WayneTech geneticists to help grow roses once.

Now, the gardens were steadily encroaching upon their borders. Alfred gardened, they had help come weekly, but without Martha's devotion the place was growing unruly. The most exotic and delicate roses had died off decades ago. The wild roses grew only in shades of red and purple. They seemed thornier now, though that must only be Bruce's imagination.

Batman crept through the foliage. He had his full mask up covering his nose and mouth to filter the air he breathed. After Luis, he was taking no chances with Poison Ivy's pheromones. It was dark in the wooded area just outside the garden, and the tree branches rustled wildly in the wind. Another sound joined the natural stirrings—voices!

In a small clearing, Batman found Poison Ivy. She was seated on a throne made of branches a mighty evergreen had lowered and intertwined for her, one leg delicately crossed over the other. In everyday life, she dressed like a gardener, but today she was in her costume (what there was of it): a skintight green bodysuit made of leaves and twigs. Her long red hair fell loose all around her, leaves and flowers tossed into it by her plants like offerings to their goddess. When she used her full powers and let the plants nurture her, her white skin took on a greenish hue. The sun seemed to peek out of the clouds just above her, just _for_ her, and the whole effect was like a breath of spring. Batman regretted his earlier words about the freaks being as freakish as any old criminal.

The board members of the bank were all around her. The suited and doughy older men looked ridiculous tethered by leashes of vines around their mistress. The most handsome board member, a younger heir in pristine physical condition, was stripped to the waist, and stood beside Ivy's botanical throne. His head suddenly turned in Batman's direction, and he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Poison Ivy climbed off her throne and opened her arms grandly in welcome.

“Ah, so you've finally come!” she said. “I was wondering when you'd—Batman!”

She was not hiding or attacking, so Batman walked out into full view. Her regal manner lapsed and her arms fell to her sides. She crossed them, looking annoyed.

“Expecting someone else, Ivy?”

“I was expecting Bruce Wayne,” she said. “What are _you_ doing here? How did you even know?”

“Why are you lying in wait for Bruce Wayne, Ivy?”

“You make it sound so suspicious,” Ivy huffed. She gestured around at the board members. “All I wanted to do was give him a little gift.”

“A … gift?”

“That's right,” Poison Ivy said. “I mean, I wasn't about to help Carmine Falcone, was I?”

“What are you talking about, Ivy?” Batman asked. “I know that you had Bruce Wayne drugged for the Falcones.”

“I did that favor for Luis Castell!” Ivy snapped. “I knew that he was being funded by the Falcones, true, but I expected him to leave me out of it. We had a deal. He never said that he would tell the Falcones he used my expertise.”

Batman could see that Ivy was not out to cause random trouble. She was furious, but at the right people. He crossed his arms, prepared to hear her out. If she was not violent, he could avoid a fight. He only hoped she did not fall back into her old habits after this little taste of them; crime was an addiction to those touched by Arkham.

“What happened, Ivy?”

“Luis must have blabbed to the Falcones,” Ivy said bitterly. “Before I knew what was happening, Sofia Falcone was at _my_ door! She demanded _my_ help! Demanded it! As if Mother Nature answers the call of barking, filthy dogs like the Falcones! She threatened me, _me_! In front of my own children, in my own home!”

Batman knew that Ivy's “children” were the plants she raised in the shop.

“She said that she would have Luis confess what I did to Bruce Wayne to the police,” Ivy went on. Her angry green eyes sparkled like peridots. “So, I told her that I would help. I said that I would charm these fine men and get them to vote with her father, just like a good little girl.”

“But you're not a good little girl, are you, Ivy?”

“No,” Ivy grinned. “I'm not.”

“So you brought them here instead,” Batman said. “Why? You're not going to kill them, are you?”

“I would have liked to have let these poor untended gardens drink and eat of them,” Ivy lamented. She crossed her arms. “But now you're here. I don't want to go back to prison, Batman.”

“All right. Why bring them here, then?”

“I wanted to apologize to Bruce personally,” Ivy said innocently. “He's a very charitable man, isn't he? Don't you think he would have forgiven me?”

“You were going to seduce him into not pressing charges even if Falcone did have Luis rat you out to the police, you mean.”

“You're so unromantic, Batman,” Ivy said. “Well. It's true, I might have let my charms do the talking for me, and killed the bankers so that a new vote would have to be taken against Falcone. But as I said, you're here. I don't want trouble. I just wanted out of this mafia mess.”

_Don't we all?_ Batman thought.

“If you release these men right now and tell them the truth about Bruce Wayne's vote, I won't send you back to Arkham, Ivy,” Batman said. “You will be arrested for this, but I'm sure Bruce Wayne won't press charges. As for these ones, they'll probably be too enamored to press charges, am I right?”

“Mmm, you do know me.”

Poison Ivy sashayed back to her throne and sat down. Batman used the comm line to tell Alfred to call the police. Ivy watched him with a bemused smile as they waited for Gordon and his men to arrive.

“You should take off that mask and get to know me better, Batman,” Ivy said. “We would make a great team, if you only let yourself see what really needs protecting in this world.”

Batman said nothing.

“You see, humans make their own choices, and they always choose to destroy,” Ivy went on. “They'll destroy anything: their planet, each other, even themselves! From the moment they are born, humans are nothing but self-centered voids of destruction, sucking in all that's good and giving back only ruination. It's bad enough that they're like this on the most fundamental chemical level, but it doesn't stop there. They consume remorselessly and endlessly. They consume simply for the purpose of consumption.”

Ivy stood from her throne, walking around the clear patch. She touched the tree affectionately, and closed her eyes to breathe in the scent of the greenery. She looked so peaceful that it could almost be mistaken for sanity.

“Humans don't need paper anymore,” Ivy said. “They hardly even use it. For the small basic so-called 'needs', there is more than enough to recycle. Yet they go on plowing down all their forests to make catalogs full of more toxic junk, or fresh white sheets to be printed on once, glanced at, and thrown away. They cling to their books because they 'like the smell' of them, 'like the feel' of them, never mind how many precious trees died to print their pages! The only life they plant anymore is to be fodder for future generations of destroyers! They claim to miss nature while saturating their sad urban gardens with chemicals, or letting them rot when caring for them becomes a chore! But why should that surprise anyone? They do it to themselves, with their children, their pets, their society, everything. They can only destroy. They only want to destroy. They only _choose_ to destroy.”

Batman was beginning to worry about her mental health. Pamela could tame her insanity well enough to live in society, but she was very passionate. He did not like letting her talk and rile herself up this way, but he did not know what to say. He could not even fully deny her charges against humanity.

“Join me, Batman!” Poison Ivy said, whirling on him. “You will see how much better it is to protect the truly innocent, the truly beautiful! Protect what's worth protecting. We could be Adam and Eve, and turn this world into a garden.”

“I don't believe that everyone exists only to destroy, Ivy,” Batman said. “People are worth protecting, and I have to protect them as much as I can.”

“At the expense of billions of other lifeforms?” Ivy asked. “You would let it all burn down just to save your wretched humans?”

“I am human, Ivy,” Batman pointed out. “So are you.”

“Not anymore!” Ivy said. She turned her face, conflict furrowing her brow. “Not anymore.”

“You've been doing well, Pamela,” Batman said. “I know that you want to stay outside of Arkham so that you can raise your—children—and do what you can to help the planet. Don't throw it all away now.”

Poison Ivy looked up at him and her expression warmed. He was relieved to see her humanity return. Pamela Isley had been betrayed by a lover, who had caused her condition in a botched murder attempt. Batman suspected that she saw her own victimization in the desecration of nature, especially since she claimed her condition allowed her to communicate with plants. She saw her own pain reflected in the admittedly dying natural world, and fought against it in the ferocious way she could never fight her own sorrow. Despite her ruthlessness, there was something noble about her, and beautiful.

“You aren't so bad, for a rodent,” Poison Ivy said. She crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom again. “But you should do something about that hideous car.”

“It runs predominantly on a special fuel cell and electricity.”

Batman did not tell her about the jet engine.

“Oh.” Ivy looked impressed. “I didn't know that. Still, what _is_ the ecological footprint of being Batman?”

Batman stalled for time as best as he could explaining the greener methods he employed. Pamela did not quite buy it. The conversation was ridiculous, but at least she was calm again. Gordon soon arrived, and Pamela did not resist arrest. The dazed bankers and Ivy were gathered into police cars. Batman told Gordon what had gone down, and waited until everyone was gone to return to Wayne Manor's Bat Cave. He met Alfred down there, much relieved to see his face after the earlier scare.

“I'm afraid you rather deflected Ms. Isley's question about your ecological footprint, sir.”

“It's all for a good cause, Alfred.”

“Quite right, sir.”

Bruce removed his mask and sat down at his computer system. He set several processes running based off of the information Pamela had given him.

“At least the Bank of Gotham won't be welcoming Falcone anytime soon,” he said. “Once the pheromones wear off and the bankers realize that Falcone sent a 'freak' after them, they'll never even speak to him again. They'll believe Pamela seduced Bruce Wayne to get him to rescind his vote, and after experiencing her _allure_ for themselves, they won't blame him—me. In a way, it isn't much of a lie: Luis did use her pheromones to get that signature.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Speaking of Luis Castell, I need to find him,” Bruce said. “Poison Ivy said that Sofia Falcone threatened her with him, so he must be alive. He's at the center of this thing, and I could use his information. Not to mention, I'd like to have one last private conversation with him, as Batman.”

Alfred had the feeling that that particular ex-lover was in line for more than a spanking.

“It's still early, but it is a holiday,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “If the Holiday killer is going to strike again, I'm at a loss as to how they'll do it. I need more information. I think this day will be better spent as Batman.”

“Very good, Master Bruce.”

“Before I go out again, did you find out about those rumors?”

Alfred leaned over and pushed some buttons on the keyboard. Several small articles and blurbs appeared on the screen. Bruce read them over, blushing faintly. Though he was a virile man, he had never been comfortable with the blatant fascination others displayed concerning sex. As long as Alfred had known him, he had never once made a dirty joke. It was one of his extremes, Alfred supposed. Bruce believed that sex should be an action, not a conversation. That, and he was a little bit of a puritan.

“At least it's vague,” Bruce said. “Still, I don't get why Bobby would do something like this. It isn't even his style. If he was angry enough to go to the press, he would name me, I have no doubt about that. Why just hint at my … my … ”

“Proclivities, sir?”

“Yeah.” Bruce shook his head, closing the articles. “It doesn't make sense. I'll have to talk to him sometime. I don't have time to deal with Bobby right now, though, and gossip about Bruce Wayne doesn't matter.”

Bruce stood from the computer and picked his mask back up. He pressed a button to hide the bottom facial cover and put it on. Alfred took his place at the computer.

“The mafia families are at the center of this,” Batman said. “I'll see if I can glean anything from them. Time to go.”

“Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

* * *

The rest of the day was wasted. Spying on Carmine and Sofia Falcone only gave Batman the satisfaction of hearing Carmine rage about what had happened with the bank's board members. The rest was a denouncement of all the freaks in Gotham City and a tongue-lashing to Sofia for ever letting her tool Castell go to Poison Ivy in the first place. They discussed the “new man” during this argument, but decided to keep him because he was “only half a freak”. The chatter was interesting, but Bruce had no way of finding out more details. Sofia left sheepishly after the argument, and Carmine shut himself in his office to drink and brood. Batman left them to their well-deserved anguish.

That evening, Bruce Wayne was forced to make a comeback. Commissioner Gordon called him from one of the many police bars celebrating St. Patrick's Day. Harvey was drunk and “not at his best,” according to Jim. Bruce decided to go fetch his lover before he made a spectacle.

The pub was packed and rock music from an Irish band was playing. Beer flowed like water. The strain of the mob war and the Holiday murders were being defied with boisterous commotion and unity. Bruce found Jim and Harvey at the bar. The bartender was glaring at them.

“If this city weren't wound so tight, maybe it wouldn't be coming loose at the seams,” Harvey complained, his voice slurred. “All I want is a smoke. Can't a guy smoke in a fucking bar?”

“No,” the bartender said. “Go outside, Mr. Dent.”

“It's DA Dent, ya—Bruce!” Harvey exclaimed. He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. “Hey, pay this guy off so I can have a smoke, will ya? It's cold outside.”

“I'm not going to do that, Harvey,” Bruce said. He took the coat Gordon proffered him. “Here's your coat. Come on, you can have a cigarette outside. I'll go with you. There's a bottle of beer here, right? To bring with?”

The bartender gave him one. Bruce managed to usher Harvey out of the pub. He was disgruntled, but not in one of his darkest moods. If he had been, Bruce did not like to think what might have happened. The two men exited the bar, shutting the raucousness out behind them. A strong wind was blowing. It really was cold. Harvey grumbled, but did not attempt to return inside. They took shelter around the corner of the pub, and he lit a cigarette.

“Did Jim call ya?”

“Yeah.”

“You two are co-parenting me now? Great.”

“We're just worried about you, Harvey.”

“I'm not a fucking child,” Harvey said. He exhaled smoke, shut his eyes. “Look, I know you two mean well, but this is too much. I got a little drunk, a little pissed off, so what? I wasn't going to start a bar fight, for Christ's sake!”

“It's late, anyway,” Bruce said. “I was on my way home to have dinner. Come with me. It _is_ cold out here.”

“Yeah, cold. So freaking cold.” Harvey filled his lungs with smoke, exhaled it. “Is that snow?”

Bruce looked up. Something was fluttering down on them. A flake landed on Harvey's cheek. Bruce picked it off and looked at it.

“No, it's confetti,” he said, showing it to Harvey. “Four-leaf clover.”

“Ha! Lucky, huh?” Harvey said. He swigged beer from the bottle. “Lucky … ”

“Come on, Harvey.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Harvey let himself be led into the car. Bruce instructed Alfred to drive them to the Gotham Regal, and the privacy glass went up. Harvey sat back chugging beer and finishing his cigarette. He had never asked for permission to smoke in the car, and never listened when Bruce told him not to. The luxury car's design had a built-in ashtray, further encouraging the man.

“Don't look at me like that, Bruce,” Harvey said. “I'm really not depressed. In fact, I was celebrating. We got some subpoenas for the Maroni case, and several warrants. It's moving along, Bruce! We're gonna get him and his scumbag people!”

“That's great, Harvey.”

“Yeah! Join me!”

Harvey forced Bruce to drink one of the small bottles from the car's little bar. He slung an arm around Bruce and kissed him, his tongue tasting of tobacco and smoke and beer. He moved closer and nestled his face in Bruce's neck, kissing and biting him hard. The beer bottle slipped from his hand, spilling all over the car floor. He missed the ashtray, stubbing out the cigarette butt on the car door's armrest. Every time Bruce tried to put down the bottle of liquor, Harvey forced him to have another drink. He was in high spirits, which could be as destructive as his low ones, in a way.

“Harvey, slow down, wait until we're home.”

Harvey was on top of him, and he could feel his erection on his leg. Bruce could feel his aggressive ardor drawing blood from his bites, bruising him with kisses. He tried to hold him back, but Harvey slammed him down. Bruce's head hit the armrest painfully.

“Harvey, that's enough.” Bruce tried to push him off futilely. He gave the man's bottom a smack. “Enough!”

“Heh heh, gonna spank me like you said?” Harvey murmured. “Yeah? What if _I_ hit _you_?”

He tried, but Bruce grabbed his wrist. He heaved Harvey off with a mighty shove and sat up. Harvey laughed wildly.

“Just calm down,” Bruce said. “We're almost home.”

“Sure.”

Still laughing, he took the bottle of liquor from Bruce and drank from it. He had had nights like this before, and they never ended well. Bruce knew that when he fell from this high, he would be lower than ever. He wished that he could punish him and that would be the end of it. If only things were so simple …

Harvey managed to behave until they returned to Bruce's suite. Once inside, he threw himself at Bruce in a frenzy. He was as combative as he was lustful, but Bruce managed to meet his fervor. Though he never specifically asked, he sometimes tried to take control and top Bruce. As always, Bruce fought him down. It was not the practice itself that Bruce opposed, although he preferred to top; he knew that if he gave Harvey power over him, he would never relinquish it. Tonight, especially, Bruce could tell that Harvey was testing his limits. He let some of his own aggression loose, and forced him down over the arm of the sofa. Harvey, he had learned, did not particularly like this position. He propped himself up on his arms, but Bruce pushed him back down. He was very tempted to make good on his threats, but he refrained. Instead, he took Harvey roughly, settling for his small inhalation of surprise and subsequent outcries.

There was little left of Harvey's aggressive energy when Bruce had finished with him. By the time they had washed up and sat down to a room service dinner, he was quiet. Bruce only hoped he was not plunging to rock bottom.

Yet Harvey seemed to be content. He ate heartily and did not protest when Bruce informed him he had only ordered sparkling water for the meal. Bruce told him that the police had informed him of Batman's encounter with Poison Ivy at Wayne Manor, and explained how it had foiled Falcone's plan to join the board of the Bank of Gotham. Harvey took this as more good news, and they laughed about it together.

_He can be tempered,_ Bruce thought, relieved. _It isn't easy, but he just needs patience and understanding. I won't make the same mistakes with him that I did with Bobby and Floyd. I can't buy into his violence. This time, I will make a difference. I will make Harvey happy, and if he still needs saving, then I will save him. I won't waste my love this time._

* * *

By the time Bruce woke up the next morning with Harvey in his arms, the Holiday killer had hit one of Maroni's safe houses. His top lieutenants were dead. Bruce expected this to ruin Harvey's good mood, and was unnerved when it only fueled it.

“Yeah, well, life's a bitch,” Harvey said. “Guess Holiday isn't just after Falcone. Maybe he's leavin' it all up to luck, too.”

Harvey picked the coin up, flipped it, and caught it. Beautiful as it was, his smile chilled Bruce. Outside, March roared on.


	2. Poisson D'Avril

[April 1, 2015]

“Rise and shine, _Loo-ees_.”

Luis Castell ignored the husky voice. He slid back across the metal floor until he was in the darkest corner of the room and hugged his knees to his chest. He heard the heavy footsteps enter the room, cringed as they approached. He buried his face in his arms, but his head was yanked back by the hair. Sofia “Gigante” Falcone grinned at him.

“Your usefulness is drying up, Luis,” she said. “That Ivy bitch didn't bite. Should I use you as bait for Wayne? Or not?”

She turned his head this way and that as she asked the questions. His neck began to ache. He wished it would just snap and he could be done with it all.

“I'll decide soon, Luis,” Sofia said. “For now, eat your food. I might find a purpose for you yet. All right?”

She patted his face with a meaty hand. It was as hard as a slap, and left his cheek stinging. A wisp of murderous outrage drifted through him, but he was too worn out to nurture it. The woman stomped on out again and the door slammed shut. Luis looked at the tray of food, telling himself he would not touch it. He lasted an hour. Then, his thirst strike was finally broken after two days, and he could not help gulping down the bottled water. His stomach cramped and he ended up eating the microwaveable meal. Furious at himself, he kicked the metal tray across the room.

Luis had been a prisoner of the Falcones since February, when his plan to chemically seduce Bruce Wayne had been exposed by Selina Kyle. He had succeeded in getting Bruce to sign the papers rescinding his vote against Falcone joining the Bank of Gotham board, and that was the only reason that he was still alive. From what Sofia had been saying recently, though, he had the feeling that his scheme had not been enough, had gone wrong somewhere. Though he suspected the mistake had been Sofia's, he knew she would blame him for it. Soon, he and his parents would be dead. He wondered if they were dead already. She never told him when they spoke, enjoyed watching him beg for an answer. The bitch.

Luis sat on the small cot the safe house provided and stewed. There was no way out of the situation. He wished that he could die, but there were no means of suicide available. He had painfully learned that Sofia had even left orders with the guards to beat rather than shoot him if he attempted escape. All he could do was wait for her to decide that his life was over.

 _I should have stayed at Wayne Manor,_ he thought. _Bruce Wayne is powerful, but he's not a sadistic crime lord. He would have probably just had me put in jail. If the Falcones wanted to shut me up, I would have been shanked, and it would all be over. Why the hell did I run away? Why do I always run away?_

Just then, the safe house door slowly swung open. He braced himself for another confrontation with Sofia, but then he saw a normal-sized, thin silhouette.

“Who—”

“April Fool's, April Fool's,” a soft voice said. “Hello, little April Fool.”

The voice made Luis's blood run cold. The water settled heavily in his stomach after days without drinking, and he felt nauseous. He gripped the mattress of the bed tightly, hazel eyes round with fear.

“Poor little April Fool,” the stranger said. “Do you want to know why you're the April Fool, Luis Castell?”

“Wh—wha—What?” Luis stammered weakly. “Who are you?”

“Oh, you know me, and I know you, but we all know me best as—Holiday.”

The Holiday killer. Luis broke into a cold sweat and started to hyperventilate. It was all he could do to control his bladder. He instantly regretted having wished to die.

“You, poor Luis, are the April Fool because you never did know why you were chosen to be the Falcone family's man inside, did you?”

“B-because they kidnapped my family! They made me do those things!” Luis tried to defend himself. “I didn't want to work for them!”

“But why _your_ family, Luis?”

“Because that bastard Falcone, he-he knew they have enemies back in Santa Prisca,” Luis said. “They were easy targets for-for blackmail!”

“Blackmail!” Holiday laughed. “Why go through all the trouble, April Fool? Think! Bribery would be far less complicated! Why put your family through all this? Why put _your_ family through all this?”

“I—I don't understand.”

“Understand this, little April Fool,” Holiday said. “It was not the US government that brought your parents stateside and shielded them from their old enemies, it was Carmine Falcone.”

For a moment, Luis forgot his terror, forgot his imminent death, forgot everything. His mind went blank as he tried to processed the statement. He froze, staring stupidly at the shadowy figure.

“No, that's not true,” he said, laughing nervously. “No. They spied for the United States, so they earned citizenship. It's not true, I—They wouldn't, not with Falcone. They wouldn't.”

“They would. They did,” Holiday said. “Not that you should blame them too much. They did indeed help the US with their interests in Santa Prisca, hoping to be granted citizenship and safety for their life-risking efforts. But when the fighting on that island got bad, the US forces withdrew, and they left your parents high and dry.”

“What?”

“The US abandoned their spies to their enemies, and flew off in their cozy choppers,” Holiday said. “That was when Falcone moved his spies in. He was looking to barter deals with the local drug lords, who were being suppressed by the fascist government. Falcone needed a go-between to help negotiate the tricky business, and your parents needed protection. Your parents had already dealt with Americans in the past, and they knew they had no future on the island. They might have gone down fighting, but they had their little April Fool to think about, didn't they?”

Luis was overcome by nausea. He fell gasping and retching to the floor. His mind throbbed as if trying to run away from reality.

“Your father has been under Falcone's thumb for years, but Falcone never needed much from him,” Holiday went on. “With the Holiday killer—that's me—on the loose, however, it was 'all hands on deck'. But your father wasn't very keen to let Falcone cash in his debt. He took moral affront to the favors he was asked to grant. So, Falcone took your parents, and decided to get his favor from you instead. And that is how you became their April Fool.”

“Oh God,” Luis breathed. “Oh God.”

Holiday knelt down next to Luis. Luis was fairly certain that it was a man, but his face was obscured by a hard white mask plastered with daily calendar pages. Dull from shock, Luis idly read the dates, and realized they were all holidays. Holiday's hand went to his back and he felt something being pinned to his shirt.

“Poisson D'Avril!” Holiday exclaimed, standing. “Now, you'd better go, April Fish.”

“Go where?”

“Run!”

Luis recalled his mortal terror and scrambled to his feet. Holiday was beading a shot on him. He heard a soft popping noise, incongruous to the pain that tore through his shoulder. He cried out, but kept running. In his peripheral vision, he saw the safe house guards dead on the ground. They were at the docks, somewhere. Luis did not care where he was or where he was going. He ran and ran into the damp April night.

* * *

“What an ugly night.”

Harvey Dent arrived at Bruce's Gotham Regal suite early that evening. His dark hair was plastered to his head from the rain, and he disgustedly peeled off his soaked coat. His shoes squished as he stepped out of them.

“I told you, you could always call for the car,” Bruce said, coming over to him. “Alfred wouldn't mind.”

“I got my own car from City Hall,” Harvey reminded him. “It was the God-awful traffic. I was pissed off just sitting around. Then I got a call about the Maroni case from Gordon, and I didn't want to take it in the car. There's no privacy glass. I can't risk any details about this case getting leaked. If there ever was a mole, they seemed to have gone back down the mole hill, thank God. We don't need another one.”

Bruce had not told Harvey about Luis Castell being the mole yet. He wanted to have a chat with him as Batman before deciding his fate. Wherever the man was, he was in no position to leak any more information to the Falcones.

“You could have just told Gordon to give you a few minutes, Harvey,” Bruce said, amused. “Too late now. Let's just get you undressed.”

“I thought you'd say that.”

The chilly rainwater dampened Bruce's shirt as he drew Harvey close to kiss him, but he didn't care. He warmed Harvey's cold pale skin with kisses, his hands stripping off the moist clothes piece by piece. They moved from the door to the living room area, where a fire was burning in the crystal fireplace. They had just settled under a warm blanket on the plush carpet in front of the fire when Bruce's cellphone rang.

“Just leave it,” Harvey said impatiently.

Bruce wanted to ignore it, but he had been tracking several leads as Batman recently. After the last Holiday killing, he was more determined than ever to catch the elusive murderer. He kissed Harvey one last time and then went for his phone. Harvey sat up scowling, pulling the blanket off his head. Bruce tousled his hair, curling from the dampness, and answered his phone.

It was Alfred. The facial recognition program that Bruce had left tracking Luis Castell had had a hit. He was spotted running frantically through the East Side docks—Falcone's turf. Alfred said that he looked injured. Bruce knew that if Falcone's people were after him, he did not have much time to save him.

“I have to go.”

“WHAT!” Harvey burst out. “What the hell, Bruce?”

“I'm sorry, there's an emergency at the company.”

“Yeah, yeah, there's always some big emergency at the company,” Harvey sulked. “Can't let those stocks fall, right?”

“I'll make it up to you when I get back.”

Bruce went to touch his face, but Harvey hit his hand away. Wrapped in the blanket, he made his way over to the bar.

“Don't bother.”

Bruce hated to leave him that way, but he had no choice. Batman had to take priority sometimes.

* * *

Batman tracked Luis Castell to the last location the cameras had spotted him: the construction site of a new factory. He used thermal vision to seek out the man. There were some hobos camped on the far left side, some more had taken shelter outside the perimeter fence. He saw a hunching figure dart into the half-finished warehouse, and went after it.

The warehouse frame was complete, but half of it was uncovered. Batman found Luis taking shelter from the rain beneath the finished section. He was shivering and very pale. One arm hung limply and he clutched the shoulder tightly. There was a dark stain beneath his hand.

“Luis Castell.”

Luis cried out in fright. It took several tries, but he managed to stand. He tried to run, but Batman grabbed him and threw him back on the ground. He knelt before him and took him by the neck. The man's eyes bulged in terror.

Beneath the mask, Bruce recalled those eyes very clearly. In certain lighting they looked blue, other times the hazel tones shifted to gold. He had gazed into those eyes and believed he was in love once.

Batman squeezed Luis's neck tighter.

“Please!” Luis cried raggedly. “Please, let me go! Oh God! You don't kill people, you don't, right? You're not going to kill me?”

“No.”

“Then please!” Luis yelled wildly. “Take me out of here! Arrest me! I don't care! Just don't let them get me!”

“Who?”

“The Falcones! And Holiday!”

Batman could not hide his shock. He had once wondered if Luis was Holiday, but it seemed doubtful after his disappearance. Did he have something to do with Holiday after all?

“Why is Holiday after you?”

“He _shot_ me!” Luis said. “Please, I'll tell you everything, just take me somewhere safe! Please! Before—”

Batman did not hear the rest. He was suddenly yanked backwards, and had to relinquish his hold on Luis lest he snap his neck. Before he could understand what was happening, he was flung across the warehouse. He crashed into a stack of concrete bricks, hearing Luis scream in the background.

Batman jumped up, scanning the area. A massive figure was standing over Luis. Batman threw a Batarang at it as it reached for Luis. The heavyweight grunted, and pulled it out of his shoulder as if it were a toothpick. It gave Bruce enough time to reach them and assess the scene.

Bruce recognized the mountain of a man instantly, from his gigantic figure and his wrestler's mask. He had witnessed him fighting in the Augment Arenas last year. He had been introduced as “the pride of Santa Prisca, the prize of Peña Duro”. His name was Bane.

Batman and Bane stared at each other for a moment. Bruce had seen him fight, and he knew that he was a smart tactical fighter, faster than a man his size should be. The Augment Arena fighters were part of an illegal blood sport that encouraged the usage of drugs and cybernetic technology to enhance strength. Though some stateside tournaments were trying to keep their fighters alive for financial reasons, many fighters had traveled the globe fighting to the death. Bruce knew that all he could expect from Bane was the worst.

“At last we meet, Bat,” Bane said. “I am Bane.”

“What do you want with him?” Batman asked of Luis.

“I want nothing with him,” Bane said. “My employer wishes to retain him.”

“Please don't take me back to Falcone!” Luis shrieked. “PLEASE! I didn't betray him! I didn't, I swear! He has my parents! I only did it for my parents! Please!”

Bane turned on him. Batman readied himself.

“I just didn't want them sent back to Santa Prisca!” Luis cried hysterically. “I just wanted to save them! Please don't kill me! They'll kill me if you take me back! Please!”

Batman was just about to strike when Bane stopped moving. He cocked his head at Luis. Batman took the opportunity to scan his body and read his fighting records through the mask's computer interface.

“You are from Santa Prisca?” Bane asked, in Spanish.

“Yes,” Luis replied, also in Spanish. “My parents are.”

Bane knelt down in front of Luis. The short man was reduced to miniature by the hulking man. Bruce was fluent in the language, so he turned his attention to their conversation.

“Why does Falcone imprison your family?”

“He helped smuggle them out of the country when the-the-the US didn't,” Luis said. “That's what—what Holiday told me. I didn't know, I swear, they never told me. They never told me.”

“Why imprison them?”

“My father didn't want to work for him during this Holiday crisis,” Luis said. “He-he probably didn't want to hurt anyone. My parents, they-they're … good people. I don't care what they had to do to survive! They're good people! They would have done anything to stay out of Peña Duro! To keep _me_ out of Peña Duro!”

Batman could understand their motivation. Santa Prisca was a formerly war-torn island now languishing beneath an extremist fascist regime. The Peña Duro prison was their pride and joy, a symbol of their ultimate control. The prison was one of the most notorious in the world.

Bane was quiet and still. The only sound was that of the rain striking the warehouse's metal roof and Luis's fast, desperate breaths. Bruce recognized the glazed look of shock coming into the man's eyes. Only adrenaline was keeping him conscious.

Confounding both Luis and Batman, Bane rested a hand atop Luis's head. The hand fit the entirety of Luis's scalp beneath it. Luis yelped. The hand could crush his skull as easily as an egg. Batman readied to attack him, but he sensed no aggression in the man.

“Stand down, Batman, I am not going to hurt him,” Bane said. He lifted the hand and stood. “I did not know that Falcone was doing this to his parents. I am an Augment Arena fighter, and I thought that working for Falcone would be easy money to fund my other interests. But I, too, am from Santa Prisca. I know what it is to do anything to escape from there. This boy's parents saved him from a fate that I know too well. I will not let Falcone destroy them—or him.”

Batman relaxed a fraction. He had never heard Bane speak so much before. His voice was cultured and intelligent, lightly accented. He offered a hand to Luis. Luis hesitantly took it. Bane effortlessly lifted him to his feet, but gently. He rested a hand atop his head again.

“I will take him,” Bane said, “but not to Falcone.”

“I need the information that he has,” Batman said. “I can get him medical care. I can keep him safe for you, until you rescue his parents.”

“I do not know you, Batman,” Bane said. “All I know is that you rule this city with fear, the way that I and the other savages ruled Peña Duro.”

“You're wrong,” Batman said. “I don't do this to rule, I do it to protect. I've never taken a life.”

Bane considered. He looked down at Luis, who was swaying on his feet. He could tell that the man was very afraid of him, and he did not blame him. He released his head and gave him a light nudge towards Batman.

“Take him, then,” he said. “But if anything happens to him, Batman, I _will_ break you.”

“I'll keep him safe.”

Batman caught Luis before he fell face-down on the ground. He picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. Bane nodded, and lumbered off. As he carried Luis back to the Batmobile, he noticed a piece of paper pinned to the back of his shirt. He tore it off and looked at it. It was a fish, like the old French April Fool's day game where children would stick a paper fish to the adults' backs and run away shouting, _'Poisson d'Avril!'_

“April Fish,” Batman murmured. He crumpled the fish in his gloved hand. “April Fool.”

* * *

Batman drove back to the Bat Cave. He had Alfred tend to Luis's wounds and put him in dry clothing. He wondered what he would do with Luis. Knowing the man's reasons, he hated to put him in the prison cells he had one side of the Cave outfitted with, but there was nowhere else. He locked him inside one, and left him to sleep. In case he woke up again, Bruce kept his mask on.

“I must say that I'm not very keen to welcome Mr. Castell back,” Alfred said.

“Don't be too hard on him, Alfred.”

Bruce explained Luis's situation to Alfred. Alfred could tell that once Bruce knew Luis had done it all to save his parents, he would forgive Luis. After all, wouldn't Bruce have done anything in the world for the chance to have saved his own family? Alfred could not entirely blame the former Assistant District Attorney, either.

“Although,” he added, “his methods were particularly obscene.”

“He was desperate,” Bruce said. “Bobby only mentioned my parents and I lost some of my control with him. People will go to extreme lengths for their families when they love them, when they're loved by them.”

“That is true, sir,” Alfred said gently. “What will you do with him?”

“I honestly don't know,” Bruce said. “He can't see you, or Bruce Wayne. I should get you a mask sometime, Alfred.”

“Very funny, sir.”

“Or maybe it's the other way around.”

“Sir?”

“I'll hide behind my other mask for a change.”

“I wish you would not view Bruce Wayne as a mask, sir. It's disheartening.”

“But it is convenient,” Bruce said. “Help me bring Luis upstairs to the mansion while he's sedated. I'll have to call Harvey, damn it. He's going to be furious with me. The Regal suite's insurance didn't cover the Riddler hostage situation. I wonder if it covers damage done by an outraged and unstable lover?”

“I highly doubt it, sir.”

“So do I.”

Bruce had Luis set up in a guest room (locked in, though Bruce doubted he would want to escape), then he returned to the Bat Cave to change out of his suit. Upstairs in the manor again, he showered, changed into his usual black silk pajamas, and retired to his room. He called Harvey, but he did not pick up. He hoped he was just sleeping, and not in a rage. He needed to stay close to Luis to gather all his information on Holiday. Until Luis woke up, he could get some precious hours of sleep.

* * *

[April 2, 2015]

Bruce woke up to find a terse text from Harvey Dent on his phone:

< 'Hope you enjoyed sleepng in your fancy office, or do u have a bedrm there too?? Some people hve to do REAL work so dont bother me 2day' >

Bruce sighed and decided to give him time to cool off before communicating with him again. He hated to admit it, but being back at Wayne Manor and having a break from everything and everyone in Gotham was refreshing. He went down to find Alfred waiting with breakfast served. He had not eaten dinner, so he ate plenty, taking his time. Then, it was time to go back to 'work'.

Bruce accompanied Alfred upstairs as he carried a tray of food up to Luis. They found him sleeping, but Bruce had no more time to waste. He roused him gently. Luis was confused. Bruce told him that Batman had brought him here and explained his situation. He assured the man that he forgave him for everything, and Luis finally calmed. He sat in bed weakly, gratefully eating the hearty meal. Bruce sat on the edge of the bed while Alfred lingered by the door.

“You've lost weight,” Bruce said.

“I've been a captive of the Falcones since February,” Luis explained. “Sofia Falcone couldn't decide whether she still had any use for me or not, so she kept me locked up in one of the Falcone safe houses. I tried to go on a hunger strike a few times, but I kept giving in. I was weak.”

“That's only natural, Luis,” Bruce said. “I'm sorry that I couldn't find you for all this time.”

“Why would you even try?” Luis said. “What I did to you was horrible. There's no excuse for it. I forced you to fall in lo—lust with me. I used your body and your mind to get those papers rescinding your vote. I betrayed you. I would have gone on taking advantage of you if your friend—Selina Kyle, wasn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“If she hadn't stopped me, I wouldn't have stopped,” Luis confessed. “I started pretending that the effects of Poison Ivy's drugs were real. Isn't that sick?”

“Very much so,” Alfred interjected from across the room.

“Alfred, could we have a few moments of privacy?”

“As you wish, Master Bruce.”

Alfred exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

“No, your butler is right,” Luis said. “It was unforgivable. I appreciate your generosity, but you shouldn't forgive me. I don't deserve it.”

“I do forgive you, Luis,” Bruce said. “I know the desperation of wanting to save your family, believe me.”

Luis's eyes widened as Bruce's background dawned on him. He bowed his head, covering his eyes with a hand. He took a few breaths to calm himself, then smiled at Bruce.

“Thank you.”

“Now, tell me about Holiday.”

Luis related the events of last night to Bruce. This was the most information concerning Holiday that anyone in the city had heard. _When Batman lets Harvey know all this, it should brighten his mood._

“I have no doubt that was the real Holiday,” Bruce said. “The bullet wound in your shoulder matched his MO. He could have killed you easily, but I guess he was 'celebrating' April Fools' Day: we thought he would kill, but he didn't. You are certain that Holiday is a man?”

“I was almost positive,” Luis said. “The voice was unmodified, and though quiet, it was completely masculine. A little nasally. I thought that I had heard the voice before, that's the funny thing, but I couldn't place it. He whispered, and his voice was raspy. I'm sorry.”

“That's all right,” Bruce said. “Did you see his face at all?”

“No, he was wearing a mask,” Luis said. “It was a hard mask, ceramic or porcelain or modified plastic, and it was plastered all over with stickers or decals designed to look like daily calendar pages, all of them dating holidays. Something must have been under the eye sockets, because I only saw blackness, no eyes. Let's see. He—I think he was wearing some kind of suit? I'm not sure. I know he had on a long coat, though, because I saw it when he was silhouetted against the door. He knelt down beside me at one point. He was taller than me, but nothing like Sofia or Bane. I'm five-foot-nine, so he must have been about, hm, five-foot-eleven. I can't remember anything else, I'm sorry.”

“It's all right, that's very good,” Bruce said. “That's more than we've had in almost half a year.”

“I-I can help a little more, I think,” Luis said quickly. “I was with the Falcone organization since the Holiday crisis started with Johnny Viti's Halloween murder. I know a lot about them and their war with the Maroni organization. They made me their inside source, now let me be yours! Er, Batman's, I mean. Do you really know him?”

Bruce could see that Luis's coffee cup was empty. He recalled the man had an addiction to caffeine. Now that the trauma was wearing off, his rapid-fire method of speaking and thinking was returning. _He'll be a sharp tool to use against the mob families,_ Bruce thought.

“I don't know Batman personally, but I am able to pass information along to him,” Bruce said cautiously. “I am a friend of Jim Gordon, and he's a friend of Batman, you see?”

“That makes sense,” Luis said. “Gordon was the detective in charge of the investigation into your parents' murder, right?”

“How did you know that?”

Luis winced at Bruce's tone.

“I just—I'm sorry, but the Falcones had me look into you, Gordon, Harvey, everyone involved in the Holiday case,” Luis explained. “They charged me with solving it, since I was inside the system. I had to learn a lot about everyone involved, including you.”

“Well, that … should be useful,” Bruce said. “It's all right, Luis, you don't have to keep apologizing. I know you only did what you thought you had to do. You're doing the right thing now, okay? That's all that matters.”

“Thank you, Bruce,” Luis said with a shy smile. “You're a good man.”

Bruce squeezed his hand briefly, then released it. It was awkward to touch him. He kept remembering less platonic touches. The more time he spent with Luis, the clearer his memory of his time with him became. Beneath the surface of his sympathy, a bubble of outrage still boiled.

“And I promise you, I will do whatever it takes to help you—to help Batman take down the goddamn mob!” Luis said, outraged for his own reasons. “I'll never forgive them for what they've done to me, to my parents.”

“Good. That's good,” Bruce smiled. “Now, let's talk.”

* * *

Bruce decided that it would be better to soften Harvey by passing on all the valuable intel he gained from Luis before returning to him as Bruce Wayne. Suited up as Batman, he found Jim Gordon and Harvey in Gordon's office, where they usually discussed the most sensitive cases. In truth, Harvey spent more time at the GCPD than was necessary for the District Attorney. Batman had seen him pursue all lines of investigations, not only their legal qualities. Batman had once thought that Harvey would have done better as a detective, until Bruce Wayne got to know Harvey's unpredictable temper.

“Don't know what that's gonna do, Jim,” Harvey was saying. “I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't even bother. Who got killed last time? Maroni's scumbags. It's like I've been sayin' all along, couldn't happen to nicer pe—Jesus Christ!”

Harvey caught sight of Batman when he turned to blow cigarette smoke towards the window. He nearly fell off his chair jumping back. Under the mask, Bruce took pleasure in having shaken his implacable lover. Gordon looked relieved. Batman had the feeling that Harvey had been driving Gordon up the wall.

“Batman,” Gordon greeted him. “I didn't expect to see you so early.”

“It's important,” Batman said. “I have new information about the Falcone and Maroni families, as well as the Holiday killer.”

Harvey and Gordon both jumped to their feet. Batman allowed himself a small smile. Under the mask, Bruce thought, _It is good to have control again._

* * *

When Batman left Harvey Dent and Jim Gordon, the two were elated. The information Luis had provided (Batman never told them where it came from) gave them dozens of new leads. When he left, they were scribbling on the old-fashioned whiteboard Jim kept up, giving orders to the detectives, and utilizing every technology the department had.

In the secret chamber annexed to his private suite atop the Gotham Regal, Bruce unequipped his Batman suit. He then returned to his suite, Bruce Wayne again. He set the crystal fireplace blazing again and put a bottle of Harvey's favorite scotch on the coffee table. Though he was still wont to come home with a bottle of his favorite “at least I can afford it on my own” whiskey, he had taken quite well to the finer bottles stocked in the suite. Bruce rarely encouraged his drinking, but he was determined to make the last night up to him.

Harvey got home very late. He was sober, but exhausted. Bruce could see the glimmer of hope and optimism in his eyes, though. He had brought take-out from his favorite Chinese restaurant. He was reticent for a moment, but allowed Bruce to kiss him in greeting. They heated the food up in the microwave and sat down to eat together. Harvey eyed Bruce skeptically, but could not help excitedly telling him about all the information the Batman had brought to the Holiday investigation. Bruce listened with a small, private smile.

“Maybe things are finally starting to look up,” Harvey said, waving his chopsticks enthusiastically. “Man, I tell ya, Bruce, the Batman is a real boon to the GCPD. I know about all the criticism about his violence, but you know what? I don't care. He's got the right idea, if you ask me. Hell, sometimes I think he doesn't go far enough.”

Bruce did not know what to say. This was not the effect he wanted Batman to have on Harvey. Once again, he considered telling Harvey his secret. He desperately wanted to explain Batman's real motivations and goals to Harvey. If he did, would Harvey understand them? Or would Harvey write both Bruce and Batman off entirely?

“No, no, I don't mean that,” Harvey self-corrected. “I know Batman doesn't kill. It's better that way, I know it is. Still, I envy him. He can go around the law all he wants to punish people that deserve it.”

“But he always goes to the law in the end, right?” Bruce pointed out. “He relies on Gordon to make the arrests, and he relies on you to make the convictions. You're just as important, even though you play a different role.”

“Gettin' a little sick of my roleplay, I'll tell ya that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, it's nothing,” Harvey said. He took a big bite out of an egg roll and spent a while chewing. Then he went on, “It's just that the Maroni case is getting to me. Sometimes when I'm working on it, it hits me: it's all just words. I gotta think of all these words to explain why a shitbag like that needs to be locked up, and respect all the words of the law while I do it. But the man that fucking killed my wife is sittin' right down there in the GCPD jail. Right there. Why am I wastin' time with words?”

“You know why, Harvey.”

“I know, I know,” Harvey sighed. “Gotta take the high road. We'd be just as bad as the freaks if we didn't, I know. It's just hard to remember that, sometimes. Especially when I think about Batman. I don't know how he does it, honestly.”

“Well, I know that if he can, you can, Harvey.”

“You've got too much faith in me, Bruce,” Harvey said. “But … thanks.”

Bruce leaned over the table and kissed him. He tasted like sweet and sour sauce. Harvey stood and put his arms around his neck. They abandoned the kitchen and fell onto the sofa in the living room. Harvey was soft and compliant for once. Bruce did not rush into sex. He rested along the length of the couch, Harvey in his arms securely. Harvey stared into the fireplace.

“Sorry about getting uptight about your job last night,” Harvey said. “I know you have your own life to worry about. I may not understand it, but I shouldn't trivialize it like that. Who knows? Maybe the corporations are the only lasting important thing in this world.”

“They're not,” Bruce said. “It's not life and death, but it's still my responsibility. I can't let Wayne Industries fall by the wayside. My father would never have wanted the legacy to end that way. Besides, we do what we can to help people. It's not much, but I like to think we're making some change.”

Bruce ached to tell Harvey the truth. The lies came to his tongue naturally, and he hated himself for them. It was no wonder that Bobby Halloran hated him.

“It's all WayneTech at the GCPD, so yeah, you are helping out,” Harvey chuckled. “Hell, even my phone is WayneTech. You've got power, Bruce, in your own way.”

“I just wonder if it's enough.”

“It's never enough,” Harvey scowled. “Even Batman's power isn't enough. I do what I can, but I don't fool myself. It won't end. It just goes on and on, all the crime, all the evil. People don't change.”

Harvey rolled closer to Bruce on the sofa. Bruce's arm encircled his waist. The solid weight of the man felt good. Bruce wished he could hold him here in this safe pleasant moment forever. Harvey smiled up at him, a little sadly.

“Price of the good fight, though, right?”

Harvey tried to affect confidence, but Bruce heard the uncertainty in his voice. Harvey's dark blue eyes searched Bruce's gaze for an answer. Or did he want approval? Bruce ran a hand through Harvey's hair and kissed him. _It shouldn't be this way,_ Bruce thought. _Being good in Gotham shouldn't always have to be a crusade. He should just be able to live._

Bruce tried to soothe Harvey's pain away physically. No words could assuage Harvey's struggle. If Bruce knew anything by now, it was that the battle for Gotham's soul was all-consuming. All he could do was hold Harvey close and pray he did not become another one of it's martyrs.


	3. Maternity

[May 10, 2015]

Outside of Gotham City, the sprawling New Jersey countryside was divided into two segments. First, there were the estates of the rich, including Wayne Manor and the Halloran mansion. These estates were just outside the city limits, situated on lush green land, and separated from the rest of the world by dense woods. Past the estates, there were the farmlands. Most of the old family farms and their fields had been purchased by major corporations, turning the farmhouses into estates in their own right. The wealthy agricultural shareholders were ensconced by acres of crops, mostly harvested by machinery. By now, most of the smaller family landowners had been driven into the city or to pastures unknown.

In the middle of a long-dead corn field, one house had yet to be razed. No one had ever made a hard effort to purchase the obscure little piece of land, and the family had never relinquished it. It was a dusty shamble: wood siding stripped of its white paint from decades of weather, roof shingles falling off, windows obscured by rheumy films of dirt. Inside, it was cleaner but no less shabby. Faded wallpaper curled from the seams. The furniture was ancient and worn. Every neglected corner was black with dirt. Ants and termites lazily crawled through the floor and base boards, feasting upon the dereliction.

The attic had been made into a bedroom some thirty years ago. One circular window let the sunlight beam down on the dust motes and insects floating in the air. The rundown pine furniture was sparse, consisting of only a twin bed, bookshelf, and dresser. A cross was nailed above the bed. Someone stirred beneath a thin blanket.

Jonathan Crane's six-foot figure was too long for the twin bed, but he slept hunched up. He stretched his lanky limbs out as he rose, back creaking. Scratching his short brown hair, he found his glasses on the dresser and put them on. He caught a glimpse of himself in the filmy mirror: long face more careworn than a thirty-five-year-old should be, flinty narrow blue eyes, pasty skin. He had stopped caring about his appearance years ago, but recently there was someone that he wanted to look decent for.

Jonathan smiled, and went downstairs to the bathroom. He showered fastidiously in scalding hot water—

_'Burn the sin away, Jonathan. Burn it!'_

—and then shaved. He was meticulous in his grooming, making sure every nail was clipped and every hair was in place. He wondered if he should buy cologne? No, that was—

_'Sinful indulgence!'_

—too much. He smelled of soap and that was enough. He dressed in his brown suit downstairs after ironing it carefully. Breakfast was a microwaved sausage sandwich and coffee. He ate at the small dinette in the kitchen, by the window overlooking the backyard. Every window's view showed only those dead fields of rotting corn stalks. You could not even see Gotham City from this house.

When he was finished eating, Jonathan left the house. There was no reason to lock it. Before getting into his out-dated blue sedan, he headed into the fields. The corn stalks rose and fell according to the weather, unaided and unloved. They were withered, but some still tried to green themselves in the spring sunlight. Jonathan breathed in their familiar scent as he rustled through them.

Several yards from the house, he came to a shed-like building. This was the family 'chapel': a makeshift church that had once been used by his preacher great-grandfather to give service to the families living so far from Gotham parishes. He could hear the cawing of the crows that were perpetually stationed on the chapel's rooftop. Inside the stuffy building, more crows were nesting in the rafters. As a child, his zealously religious grandmother would sometimes lock him inside this chapel, doused with a homemade chemical that enraged the crows into attacking him. He would curl up on the floor, shielding his face and eyes, saying his remorseful prayers while the birds pecked and slashed and ate his flesh.

“Grandmama, Happy Mothers' Day,” Jonathan said quietly. “Is God looking after your soul well? How is ma?”

Jonathan Crane had been abandoned to his fanatical grandmother after his unwed teenage mother had left for Gotham City. He never knew who his father was, or where he went after fleeing the responsibilities of fatherhood. After years of abuse, Jonathan Crane had enrolled in Gotham University. In his second year, he had managed to track down his mother. She was an office temp, working to better her childless life. He went to face her, and ended up strangling her to death—on Mothers' Day. Her body was buried in the small family plot outside the chapel, along with the grandmother he had also killed.

“Good, good,” Jonathan said, as if the dead had spoken to him. “I have to be on my way now, grandmama, ma. I have to go to Arkham Asylum, and then I have an appointment in Gotham City. I have a shiny new plaything for my darling, for my Harleen. She does so love to pry into the minds of these criminals, just like I do. This will be my most special present for her, for my dear Harleen.”

Jonathan paced the spacious chapel room. A few ancient pews made of rough pine wood framed the aisle. He walked down it, looking up at the empty pulpit. He had read copies of his ancestor's sermons. He could picture the man promising fire and brimstone to his paltry parishioners in ages long since past. He always wondered if the crows had been around back then, whether they had witnessed those righteous rages? Sometimes he fancied that the same crows watching him now were the very ones that had savaged him in childhood, as well as those that looked down upon all the generations of faith and fear that the chapel had seen. Humans were ephemeral. The crows seemed as immortal as God himself.

“I have to go now, grandmama, ma,” Jonathan said. “I will bring you flowers tonight. God bless you.”

* * *

“God _damn_ it!”

Harvey's fist hit the wall of Gordon's office hard enough to dent the plaster. Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon shot up from their chairs in alarm. Harvey kicked over a chair. He paced like a caged beast, running his hands through his dark brown hair, setting it on end.

“No fucking way!” Harvey roared. “No fucking way does Maroni get a psych eval! And Jonathan Crane? Every fucking criminal he touches suddenly gets to plea insanity! It's bad enough he got the Firefly sent to Arkham, but now Maroni, too? Fuck it!”

“He's entitled to a psychological evaluation, the same as anyone,” Gordon said. “You know that's the law, Harvey.”

“Fuck the law!”

Harvey looked around for something to attack next. Bruce strode up to him and put his hands on his shoulders. He felt the tension rippling through Harvey even through his shirt. His hardened muscles twitched and his chest was heaving. Bruce kissed his face. Harvey blinked at him blankly, as if he had not comprehended it.

“It will be okay, Harvey,” Bruce assured him. “Salvatore Maroni is not insane. There is no way that Dr. Crane will be able to deem him innocent by reason of insanity. He's been methodically running the second-largest crime family in Gotham for years.”

“You think people still give a shit about facts, Bruce?”

Harvey shrugged Bruce's hands off and paced around him. Gordon and Bruce shared a worried look. Harvey had been riding a high for a while, but the leads on Holiday were not going anywhere, Garfield Lynns AKA Firefly had escaped conviction due to insanity, and now his case against Maroni was in jeopardy. The sudden crash had thrown his mental state askew. Feeling helpless, Bruce forced Harvey into an embrace. To his shock, Harvey broke down in his arms.

“What the fuck!” Harvey shouted through his tears. He pounded Bruce's chest hard. “Why does it have to be so fucking hard? He killed my wife! He knew what he was doing! He planned every fucking detail! He sent the Firefly to torch my house and blow my wife into nonexistence! There was nothin' in her fucking coffin! What the fuck is it going to take to put him away? What?”

“You'll put him away, Harvey,” Bruce tried to assure him. “You'll win. You will.”

Harvey screwed his eyes shut, fists curled on Bruce's chest. Bruce caressed him, kissed his forehead. Gordon was pale. Harvey Dent was one of his last hopes to save the city from a political standpoint, and he was watching him crumble. Gordon was also a father. Bruce could see in his eyes the fear of fatherhood. _If Gotham City has destroyed Harvey this way, what will it do to his son?_ Bruce wondered. _Gordon must be thinking something like that. He's known Harvey since he was a boy. The inevitability of pain must terrify him._

“Harvey … ”

“No.”

Harvey pushed away from Bruce. He sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve like a boy. Gordon gave him a tissue and he cleaned his face. He took a deep, deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“No, I'm not goin' down like this,” Harvey said. “I'm not going to let Crane do whatever the hell he wants with Maroni. Not this time.”

With that, Harvey stormed out of the room. Bruce and Gordon went after him. Harvey out-paced them and ran into the interrogation room where Crane was interviewing Maroni. He locked them all in. Gordon pounded the door, swearing.

“Harvey, open up!” he called. “Don't give Maroni a reason to press charges against _us_!”

They heard Harvey confronting not Maroni, but Jonathan Crane inside the room.

“What have you been doing, huh?” Harvey asked. “First the Riddler, then Firefly, all sent to Arkham. They were a little troubled, I'll give you that, but you made them into raving lunatics. Plannin' on doing the same thing to our friend Sal here.”

“I'm not an insane freak, Dent,” Maroni spoke up.

“For once we agree on something, Sal,” Harvey said tightly. “Crane, what the fuck are you up to? Huh?”

They heard something slam. Gordon pounded the door again.

“We might have to break it down,” he told Bruce.

“I am only doing my job, DA Dent,” Jonathan Crane said. “And you cannot be in here. As for Mr. Maroni, it is far too soon to determine whether he is mentally competent or—”

“Oh, he's competent, he was fucking competent enough to have my wife killed!”

Another slam.

“So don't you tell me he's not competent!” Harvey roared. “What are you planning to do? Do you give them something? Tell them how to act? Hypnotize them? WHAT?”

“Get your hands off me!”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh. A grunt. Maintenance had come and they were dismantling the doorknob. Bruce pounded against it. It was barricaded from the inside in addition to being locked. Gordon groaned.

“This is a nightmare,” he said. “Damn it, Harvey!”

From the room came the sound of more blows. Crane cried out.

“Oh, and what do we have here?” Harvey said suddenly. “I knew it! I fucking _knew_ it! What is this, doctor? Some kind of crazy toxin? Huh? Answer me!”

“Give that back! You can't, that's—ahhh!”

By the time they broke the door down, they found Harvey atop Jonathan Crane on the floor. Crane was bruised and bloody. Harvey was smashing his fist into his long face again and again. Bruce rushed in and pulled him off.

“Gotham's White Knight is getting his armor all dirty,” Maroni smirked.

“Shut it, Maroni,” Gordon said. “Get him back to his cell. Now!”

The bewildered cops that had flocked to the commotion obeyed. Maroni was unchained from the interrogation table and escorted out. On the floor, Jonathan Crane sluggishly sat up. Harvey broke away from Bruce and gave the man a vicious kick to the midsection.

“Harvey, stop!” Gordon snapped. “You're gonna kill him!”

“Yeah, I'm gonna kill him!” Harvey yelled. He kicked Crane again. “I'm gonna fucking kill him! You know how many convictions I missed because of this guy?”

Bruce pulled Harvey way from the doctor. Harvey struggled, but Bruce slammed him against the wall. He held him in place firmly. Harvey glowered at him.

“You want proof?” Harvey removed a syringe filled with a sickly yellow chemical from his pocket. “There's your proof!”

“No, that's mine!” Crane shouted. “You can't—”

“Whatever it is, it doesn't prove anything,” Gordon said. “We don't know what it does, or if it was even intended for Maroni.”

“Well, let's find out what it does.”

Before he could stop him, Harvey had stuck the needle into Bruce's neck. Bruce's eyes went wide with shock as he felt a chill enter his bloodstream. His mind fogged up and anxiety crept into him. He backed away from Harvey, holding his head.

“What the fuck?” Gordon asked thinly. “Harvey, what did you do?”

“You wanted proof, right?” Harvey shrugged. “We'll see what it does to Bruce here. If it drives him nuts, we can assume that's how Crane's been causing the mental breakdowns that land all his patients in Arkham.”

“How could you do that?” Gordon asked. “He's your—Harvey, how in the name of God could you do that to him?”

“Relax, the patients are always fine by the time they get to court to enter their plea, right?” Harvey said. “Shouldn't last too long.”

Bruce hardly heard the conversation. A deep surge of fear was welling up inside of him. In his mind, he was back in Crime Alley on a snowy November night. Pearls scattering on concrete. Two shots. He was kneeling between his parents. He didn't want the spreading pool of blood to touch him. It was not right, their blood should not be running freely as a river over the dirty street, he did not want it to touch him, he did not want to feel the warmth of their life seeping out of them, onto him …

“Gah!” Bruce clutched his head in both hands. He was trying to center himself, but he could feel it was a losing battle. “Call—Call Alfred! Please! Alfred, get Alfred, tell him I—I want to go home. I just want to go home.”

Harvey was startled by the childish pleas. He had never heard this much fear in Bruce's voice. In fact, he had never seen a trace of fear in him at all before. Guilt filled him. Jonathan Crane had picked himself up off the floor. He was watching Bruce with fascination.

“We … We will go to the movie,” Bruce whispered. “Mom and Dad and I. We will go to the movie, and then … we will … go home. That's all. That's all.”

Gordon shot Harvey a furious look. Harvey had the decency to be ashamed. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I'll go get Alfred myself,” Gordon said. He clapped Harvey's shoulder, harder than was necessary. “Don't let either of them out of here.”

“Yeah. Sorry, Gordon, I didn't mean to—”

“Save it!”

Gordon barged out of the room. Harvey took up a post by the door.

“Fascinating,” Crane said. “This is Bruce Wayne, isn't it? Of course, he would be afraid of that night more than anything. His parents brutally murdered.”

“No!” Bruce exclaimed. “No! No, we will go to the movie, and we will go home. No! We will go home, we'll go home.”

“You might as well come clean, Crane,” Harvey said. “Your goose is cooked. What is that shit?”

“I made it,” Jonathan boasted. “Grandmama might have invented the recipe, but I made it better. It doesn't just scare crows away now. Not just crows at all. Hmhmhm.”

“Some kind of fear-inducing toxin?”

“Fear toxin,” Jonathan murmured. “I like that.”

“You're a sick son-of-a-bitch,” Harvey said. “It should have been you in Arkham all this time.”

“I have been in Arkham.”

“Not working there, incarcerated there!”

“Perhaps,” Crane allowed. He turned back to Bruce. “This man has incredible control. I've never seen anyone fight it for so long. But he can't fight it forever.”

“Will it wear off?” Harvey asked nervously. “Will he be okay?”

“Everyone responds to the trauma of the experience differently,” Crane said. “Bruce?”

Bruce looked up, but he did not see Jonathan Crane. He saw Joe Chill. He cried out in fear, pushing the doctor away as he rushed to the other side of the room.

“No, please,” he whispered. “They said they would do anything. They would have given you anything. Please, don't kill them. Please.”

“But they were killed, Bruce,” Crane said plainly.

“Damn it, shut up!” Harvey snapped at him.

“No!” Bruce sank to his knees. “No, no … Oh God, the blood … No, I don't want to feel it, I don't want it _on_ me! Get it away. Get me away! Someone, please! Put it back inside them! Don't let it spill! No!”

Bruce cringed across the floor, trying to escape an imaginary puddle of blood. Harvey wanted to go to him, but he did not want Crane to escape. Gordon soon arrived with Alfred, who immediately went to his charge's side.

“What happened?” Alfred asked. “Who did this?”

“Harvey,” Gordon said.

Alfred glared murderously at him.

“But it's Dr. Crane's drug!” Harvey said. “It's something he's calling 'fear toxin'. See, Gordon? I told you! Crane's been dosing inmates with this stuff to get them to break down and get to plead insanity! I told you, didn't I? I was right.”

Gordon shut his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Alfred helped Bruce to his feet. Bruce clung to him as if he were a boy again. Harvey's attempt at a smile fell. He knew he would not be forgiven for this anytime soon.

“I am taking Master Bruce home—to his _real_ home,” Alfred told Harvey. “I would suggest you allow him some time to recover before seeing him again, Mr. Dent.”

“Yeah, sure, I know.” Harvey stared at his shoes in shame. “Alfred? I really am sorry.”

“Save your apology for Bruce,” Alfred said. “Though I doubt he'll want to waste his time hearing it.”

With that, Alfred took Bruce from the room. Gordon had his men arrest Jonathan Crane. He was infuriated with Harvey, but Harvey followed him back to his office regardless.

“How could you do that to him?” Gordon asked. “Not only has Bruce Wayne been a friend to you despite all your one-percent jokes and derision, he's your lover! You had no idea what was in that syringe! It could have been poison, for all you knew! You could have _killed_ him!”

Harvey sat down on a chair, resigned to take the tongue-lashing.

“Even if you had known what it was, you've seen the state it puts people in!” Gordon went on. “He's reliving the worst night of his life now, thanks to you! There's no telling what effect that will have on him! What if he loses his mind, Harvey? Did you even stop to consider that possibility?”

“No,” Harvey said. “No, I wasn't thinking anything. I was just desperate to stop Crane from giving Maroni an insanity plea. I was desperate, Jim.”

“That's no excuse!” Gordon yelled at the younger man. “Harvey, we get it, you're mourning, we all _get_ it! But I'm done walking on eggshells with you! Bruce and I have our own shares of tragedy to deal with! Everyone in this goddamn city does, not just you, Harvey! But no matter what I've gone through, I sure as hell wouldn't do what you did to a friend! And I'm sure Bruce wouldn't do that to you, either! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don't know.” Harvey held his head in his hands and bowed it. “I just don't know.”

Despite his remorse, Gordon was not yet ready to let him off the hook.

“Well, I _do_ ,” he said. “You've let your vendetta against the mob consume you. You've been reckless and foolish and manipulative. You're using me, Bruce, anyone that you can to get your way, and it's costing us. You're not only endangering yourself anymore, do you get that?”

“Yeah.”

“Bruce thinks you're bipolar or something,” Gordon said. “He said that your mood was more even when he had you taking lithium during your recovery. I think you just need a good kick up the ass—and I'm tempted to give it to you, believe me—but if it works, then take it. Talk to someone, get some help, if you have to. You can't keep going like this, Harvey. It isn't gonna work.”

Harvey bristled at the idea of being medicated, but he said nothing. In truth, he could scarcely believe what he had done, either. He stared at his hands, pondering how they had acted on their own. Bruce had always seemed immutably powerful. Despite his naive optimism and open love, he was never very vulnerable. _Yet I hurt him,_ Harvey thought. _I actually hurt Bruce._

“Now get out of here.”

Harvey looked up in surprise. Gordon had never banished him from his office before. Gordon's face was steely. Behind his glasses, his eyes were narrowed at Harvey. The expression made Harvey wince.

“That's right, get out,” Gordon repeated. “I keep having to look at your face, I am going to give you that kick.”

“Jim, I—”

“Save it. Just go, Harvey.”

Harvey swallowed and got to his feet. He gave Gordon one last hurt look, and then slunk out of the office. When he was gone, Gordon sighed, sinking into his chair. He felt sorry for Harvey Dent, but he knew the man needed a dose of tough love. Besides, he was genuinely pissed off at him. When that syringe had been plunged into Bruce's neck, Jim had been terrified. He had always felt sorry for Bruce after working on his parents' murder case, and he admired the man Bruce had grown to be. He was one of the good guys, even if he was rich; he cared about the city, and did all he could to make it better. Harvey was the same, but he was losing his grip on his ideals.

 _I feel like I have two wayward adopted sons,_ Gordon thought dryly. _I can't believe the one almost ruined the other today. Damn that Harvey. I don't understand being gay much, but I should talk to Bruce about Harvey once he's better. A relationship is just a relationship, right? Yeah, so I should warn Bruce. If Harvey doesn't get his act together, he could be a danger to Bruce. Bruce doesn't really get the painful, hard-edged place Harvey comes from, but I do. I was there to arrest his abusive father. God help me, I'm starting to see that guy in Harvey now. He's even taken to flipping the same damn coin. I'd hate to see Bruce hurt by Harvey when he's acting that way. Bruce deserves better._

* * *

Fortunately for Bruce, Alfred was familiarized with every piece of equipment in the Bat Cave. He brought Bruce down by the arm, and settled him on the hospital bed. Bruce was rambling on about the night of his parents' murder, occasionally bursting into hysteria. Alfred restrained him for his own safety, and set to work. He drew a blood sample and had the mass spectrometer analyze it. Bruce would know more about the results, but Alfred knew enough to have the sophisticated machines fabricate an agent to dispel the effects. Bruce would probably create an antidote when he recovered. In the meantime, Alfred gave Bruce the drug, and sedated him.

“Why didn't we just go home, Alfred?” Bruce asked. His blue eyes rolled around the room wildly. “Why didn't we just go home?”

Alfred's heart broke to see him this way. Bruce could only cope with the traumatic event by mastering his emotions, and telling himself that the memory would not own his life. Both he and Alfred knew this was a lie, of course: Batman was proof that the memory always had and always would consume his life. But the mere pretense of conquering his past was enough to dull his pain. Seeing his carefully constructed facade ripped away from him was disturbing. It was a violation even worse than Luis's chemical seduction. Bruce's mind and heart had been laid bare. His defenses were gone, leaving him at the mercy of a merciless memory.

“I don't know, sir,” Alfred said, his eyes moist. He stroked Bruce's forehead, brushing his silky black hair out of his eyes. “I just don't know.”

“The blood was so warm,” Bruce said, fresh tears falling. “So warm. It should have been inside them, not on me. They must have been getting cold. So cold … ”

Alfred could do nothing but sit holding his hands. He dabbed his own eyes with a handkerchief. He would never forget the sight of Bruce that night at the GCPD. His tear-stained face was a mask by the time Alfred arrived, but his eyes were still raw with thunder-stricken pain. The suit he had worn to the movie premiere was caked with dirt and the blood of his parents. In his hands he cupped the broken string of pearls his mother had been wearing. He had looked straight through Alfred. Alfred had never felt so helpless before.

 _My world had been blown apart as well,_ Alfred thought. _I had never intended to stay in America for the rest of my life. My youth was spent in violence. I went all over the world as an army medic, trying to stitch together so many fragments of young lives. I wanted brevity, I wanted joy, and I found it later on in the theater. I never should have stopped acting to work for MI5 and MI7. They ruined me. Family tradition saved me—I had a place to go to, and it was in service to the Waynes. But I always intended to return to England and the stage once the danger died down. I cared deeply for Master Bruce, but I always thought he would be fine without me. He had his parents, after all, and they were wonderful parents. I thought that once he was a teenager and finding his independence, I would go back home. But Thomas and Martha didn't even live to see Bruce's adolescence._

“And how could I leave you then?” Alfred whispered to the sleeping man. “How could I abandon you after you were so cruelly orphaned?”

Alfred squeezed Bruce's hand and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief again. Then he stood and busied himself cleaning up. _Damn that Harvey Dent,_ he thought. _Even if Master Bruce forgives him, I don't believe that I ever shall._

* * *

Bruce came to late that afternoon. The worst of the fear toxin's effects had passed, but he was still shaken. He did not speak until after he had showered and eaten. When he did, the first thing he said was that he wished to go to the cemetery.

They drove out to the secluded cemetery where the Waynes were buried. A massive black marble headstone listed the names of Bruce's parents, and their dates of birth and death. Behind the headstone there was a massive statue of an angel, faceless and androgynous. Its arms were held out protectively over the grave, palms up as if pleading for mercy for the souls of the departed. Its wings were spread majestically, throwing a shadow over the grave at this hour. Bruce knelt to place a bouquet of spring roses on the grave.

“Happy Mothers' Day, mom,” he said. “I hope that dad is taking care of you.”

Bruce claimed to be an atheist, but he always spoke to his parents. Alfred suspected there was still a tiny part of him that hoped Heaven existed. Martha Wayne had been gently religious, and had passed some of that faith on to her son.

Bruce sat quietly in front of the headstone for some time. Then he rose and they returned to the car. In the back seat, he was very quiet.

“Where to next, sir?” Alfred asked.

“The Gotham Regal,” Bruce said reluctantly. “It's a holiday, but going out as Batman in this condition would be … unwise. Besides, I have a dozen texts from Harvey.”

“That man!” Alfred burst out. “Is it really a good idea to see him so soon?”

“I'll have to deal with him eventually,” Bruce said. “He's really beating himself up over what he did. I need to talk to him.”

“Very well, sir,” Alfred said. “But I hope that you don't forgive him too easily. What he did was reprehensible.”

“Believe me, Alfred, I know,” Bruce said darkly. “I know.”

They drove to the Gotham Regal hotel, and Bruce went up to his private suite. He had already texted Harvey to meet him there, and found him inside. Harvey was sitting on the sofa with a morose expression. He put out one of the cigarettes Bruce had told him not to smoke inside countless times. Bruce came over and Harvey looked up at him with a nervous smile.

“Hey, you're all right, thank God,” he said. “Thank God. I was really scared.”

“So was I.”

Bruce sat down next to him, staring at the man. Harvey cleared his throat and loosened his tie.

“You are okay, right?” Harvey said. “That stuff is out of your system?”

“Most of it.”

“Thank God,” Harvey repeated. “Do you want a drink? You could probably use one, huh? I'll get us a drink.”

Harvey went to rise, but Bruce caught him by the wrist. He pulled him back down beside him. He did not let go of him.

“I don't want a drink,” Bruce said. “Harvey … I'm not going to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“I'm not going to ask for permission.”

“Permission for wh—Oh!”

Bruce pulled him harshly down over his knees. Harvey was surprised by his strength, and was too stunned to struggle. He was laid across the sofa, his buttocks propped up over Bruce's knees. He felt his face turn red and his stomach flip-flopped. Bad memories burst across the surface of his mind, and he swallowed down a sick feeling. Before he could think of how to react, he felt Bruce's hand slap down upon the seat of his pants—once, twice, several times in rapid succession.

“I guess I kinda earned this,” Harvey admitted.

“Kinda?”

“All right, so I did,” Harvey sighed. He crossed his arms on the sofa cushion, resting his chin on them. “Jeez. Gordon was talkin' about giving me a kick, and now this.”

Bruce said nothing. Even through his pants and briefs, the spanks stung. Harvey sighed again, deciding to let Bruce get it out of his system. He bit down his outrage and waited. Bruce spanked him steadily, and then paused. Harvey thought it was over, but Bruce did not let him up. He pushed him down firmly and reached under him to undo his belt and open his fly. Harvey buried his burning face in his arms as Bruce pulled his pants down, and then tugged off his briefs. In a moment, Bruce's palm was striking his naked bottom. He was using all the force that he could, and the spanks had a sharp snapping motion to them. Harvey hissed at the sting.

“You hit hard,” he said. “You've been waiting to do this since we met, haven't you?”

“I have.”

Bruce raised Harvey's bottom a bit higher with his knees, and framed it with an arm around his hip. The closeness aroused Harvey, despite everything. Bruce must have felt his erection, but he ignored it. He continued the spanking with curt, pointed smacks. The curve of his lover's firm, meaty bottom began to turn bright red. He started to squirm, and twice he had to stop himself from reaching back. Bruce allowed himself a small smile.

 _At last, the hotheaded District Attorney is brought down a few notches,_ he thought. He pushed Harvey's white shirt up a little more to smack the higher arch of his buttocks. He wanted every inch of Harvey's bottom scarlet. _I_ have _been waiting to do this since we met. He's always been aggravating. I've been patient with him because of everything he's been through, but today was the last straw. He can't use what he's been through as an excuse to get away with everything. I went through hell because of him. Bobby just mentioned my parents, but because of Harvey … I had to watch them die all over again. I watched them die, even when I slept, over and over and over again … As if I don't remember that night often enough as it is._

“You—You do know that I'm sorry, right?”

Bruce did not seem inclined to end the spanking anytime soon, and Harvey was getting impatient. His bottom was beginning to ache beneath the fiery sting, and the humiliation was gnawing at him. He got no reaction from Bruce, who continued striking him in a steady, pitiless rhythm.

“Look, I know I shouldn't have done it,” Harvey said. “But don't you think you're taking this a little too far?”

“You're not going to argue your way out of this, Mr. District Attorney,” Bruce informed him. “This isn't a courtroom.”

Harvey's blush deepened. He _was_ the District Attorney, and it was ludicrous that he was over Bruce Wayne's lap, being spanked like a child! The only reason he had submitted was because he felt guilty. It was unfair of Bruce to take advantage for so long.

Bruce watched Harvey's squirms become more decided. He was going to try and get away, Bruce knew. He had expected that Harvey's pride wouldn't allow him to humbly take the sound spanking he deserved. He gave him a series of his hardest, fastest smacks.

“Gah! Jesus!” Harvey blurted out. “That stings! All right, that's enough! Enough, Bruce! I said I was sorry! God, you're a fucking sadist.”

Harvey propped himself up on his elbows. Before he could do more, Bruce yanked his arms behind his back. Harvey fell over again, his bright red bottom higher in the air than ever. Bruce had stopped at a store on his way to the hotel, and was prepared for the headstrong man. He handcuffed Harvey's wrists behind his back.

“What?” Harvey looked over his shoulder. “What the hell?”

“You're not going anywhere,” Bruce said. He rubbed Harvey's bottom, squeezed it, and gave him another spank. “Not until _I_ say you can.”

“What?”

Harvey was stunned into inaction. Bruce used the time to reposition him on his lap. He pushed Harvey off the sofa, so that his weight fully rested on Bruce's knee. Bruce put his other leg over Harvey's legs. Though he was still angry, Bruce could not help appreciating the sight of Harvey's toned, handsome body trapped beneath him. He ran a hand up and down Harvey's pert, warm bottom.

“THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

“Ah, there's that temper,” Bruce observed. “I was wondering when it was going to show.”

“You can't fucking—” Harvey was cut off by a ringing spank. “Ngh. You can't do this!”

 _The criminals on the street say the same thing to Batman,_ Bruce thought, amused. He raised his arm and brought his broad palm down on the center of one cheek, making Harvey jump. Harvey struggled in earnest now, but he was no match for Bruce. His long, strong legs bucked against Bruce's leg, bare feet straining against the floor. Bruce easily held him in place, and gave him a full round of his hardest spanks. Harvey's bottom was dark crimson all over.

“Damn you, you're not my father!” Harvey roared. “How fucking DARE you!”

Harvey lunged into a half-coherent tirade. He even might have brought up Bruce's parents once or twice. Bruce listened only to the sweet sound of his palm slapping against the man's quivering buttocks. The fury died down eventually, and Harvey's threats became more frequently interrupted by yelps of pain. Bruce felt a little sorry for him, but he had had this coming for a very long time. Bruce was not prepared to go easy on him.

“The fuck?” Harvey whispered. “Owww! Fucking hell! Your arm's gonna fall off if you keep it up.”

Bruce had not even broken a sweat. He was in good enough shape to spank his lover all night, if he was so inclined. He had a feeling that Harvey knew this, because he bowed his head again in submission. His voice had been thick, and he sniffled now. Bruce was undeterred by his tears.

“Damn you, Bruce,” Harvey murmured. “Don't you believe that I'm sorry? I wasn't thinking, I was just desperate to keep Maroni out of Arkham. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“I know you're sorry, Harvey,” Bruce said. “That doesn't change the fact that you were dangerously reckless today. You almost beat Jonathan Crane to death, and you injected me with an unknown substance that you suspected could cause insanity.”

“Don't scold me!” Harvey growled. “Don't you dare fucking scold _me_! Not you!”

“Why not?” Bruce put his arm around Harvey's bottom, lifting it up to receive a fast succession of spanks. “Because I'm Bruce Wayne? Get over it already, Harvey. I may be rich, but I've been through my own hardships. I've survived things you couldn't dream of. And I have dealt with harder men than you.”

“Is that so?” Harvey muttered. “Ah! Damn it! Ow! Are you _ever_ gonna stop?”

“Are you ever going to learn your lesson?”

“Don't treat me like a child!”

“It's a bit too late for that.”

Harvey scowled at the floor. His bottom was on fire with pain. Bruce's hand was as hard as a board, and the force of the spanks never wavered. To top it all off, he was crying. He did not know why, exactly, but the tears had started falling at some point. He felt like a fool, a fool and a child.

 _And I deserve it,_ Harvey thought miserably. _That's the worst part of it all. I more than deserve this. But does he have to be so severe? We've been here forever._

“Whaddaya want from me, Bruce?” Harvey asked wearily. “I apologized. What else can I do?”

“Just take your punishment, Harvey.”

“At least give me a chance!” Harvey said. “Heh. Why don't you get dad's coin and flip it? Heads, you'll stop. How about that?”

“No.”

“But at least that'd be fair!”

“You're whining.”

Harvey grumbled wordlessly in frustration, hanging his head again. Bruce tousled his hair and then continued the punishment. It was quiet save for the sound of the spanks. Harvey recalled Bruce telling him that the apartment was soundproof. At least no one would hear his humiliation.

The last session of spanks were the worst. Bruce's hand punished him in full force for a good ten minutes straight. Harvey yowled, writhing on Bruce's lap. Fresh tears burst from his eyes, and he did not fight them. When it was finally over, Harvey was sobbing. Bruce stroked his bottom affectionately, though his hot palm did nothing to ease the sting. He patted Harvey's bottom, and then lifted him up off his knee. He sat him beside himself on the sofa, patting his head. Harvey sat handcuffed and sniffling, giving Bruce an accusatory glower. Bruce smiled lovingly at him.

“Should I un-cuff you now?” he asked. He reached out and took Harvey's face in one hand. “Hm? Are you going to be good?”

Harvey certainly did not look in any condition to pick a fight. He sat with his legs up on the sofa, trying to keep pressure off his scarlet bottom, his modesty protected only by his shirt. His brown hair was all tousled and his face was streaked with tears. Was there a hint of respect in his stormy blue eyes? Bruce thought there was.

“Yeah,” Harvey murmured. “Yeah, I'll be good.”

Bruce removed the handcuffs. Harvey rubbed his wrists and then his bottom. Bruce pulled him into his arms and kissed him. Harvey held back for a second, then warmed to the comfort. His arms wrapped around Bruce, and he rested his face on his shoulder.

“I'd forgotten how much it hurts,” he mumbled. “Didn't think it could hurt so much at my age.”

“Never too old to be stung by a spanking, Harvey.”

“Guess not.”

Harvey leaned back on the sofa, taking the pressure off his bottom. Bruce held him close, caressing him soothingly. Harvey yanked off his tie and wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. He rubbed his bottom again, wincing.

“Damn, you hit hard,” Harvey said. “It … It really hurts. I mean, I've taken worse, but not in years. Not since I was a child.”

“I just hope I was able to spank some sense into you.”

“You're such a high-handed pr—”

Bruce smacked his bottom.

“Sorry,” Harvey said sheepishly. “Force of habit. Guess I'm gonna have to rethink the way I deal with you, huh?”

“I hope you do.”

Bruce pulled Harvey into his arms and hugged him tightly. Harvey's blush deepened. Bruce's hand caressed his buttocks, squeezing now and then. Harvey was mortified, but he was done fighting for the time being.

“It isn't only about me, though,” Bruce said. “No more dangerous behavior. I mean it, Harvey. You have got to get your temper under control. And I want you to try going back to the lithium. Or we can try another medication, if you get professionally diagnosed.”

“No way,” Harvey said. “Don't spank me again! Just listen. Even if I was crazy, and I'm not, I can't go to a professional. The information would leak out and it would hurt my career.”

“If you keep going untreated, _you're_ going to hurt your career,” Bruce pointed out. “Possibly ruin it.”

“Fine, then I'll try the lithium again,” Harvey said. “A very low dose. All right?”

“That's fine.”

“I can't believe I'm letting you take charge of me like this,” Harvey scowled. “The hell is it about you? How are you so paternal? You're younger than I am.”

“Don't sulk, Harvey.”

“I'm not calling you 'daddy'.”

“I don't want you to, Harvey.”

Harvey's stomach growled. Bruce chuckled.

“You're not plannin' on sending me to bed without dinner too, are you?”

“No.”

“Good, let's get room service or something,” Harvey said. “I didn't eat. I came right over when I got your text. Heh. I probably should have known better, huh?”

Harvey's usual attitude was gone. He looked lovely without the anger and scorn marring his expression. Bruce kissed him tenderly and held him for a few more moments. Then he went to order dinner. Harvey climbed off the sofa and slipped his black boxer-briefs back on. He didn't bother with pants. Bruce watched him out of the corner of his eye. He was subdued, if a bit petulant.

The meal was brought up. Harvey winced when he sat down to dinner, but the pain did not curb his appetite. He ate ravenously, and seemed comforted by the food. All in all, he had taken the spanking better than Bruce had expected. There must have still been a part of him that knew when he needed punishment left over from childhood. Bruce felt a little guilty for taking advantage of it, but he did not regret it.

“Is it going to be like this from now on?” Harvey asked over dessert. “You spanking me every time I do something you don't like?”

“I don't know,” Bruce said. “Do you want me to discipline you, Harvey?”

“No,” Harvey said hotly. His temper softened again. “Maybe. I don't know. I'm still pissed off about it, but … I really thought I had lost you over this fear toxin thing. So, I guess it's better than that.”

“Why are you pissed off? You deserved it.”

“Yeah, I know, but to be _spanked_?” Harvey flushed brightly. “Jeez. You've got a lot of fucking nerve, Bruce. You really do.”

“Calm down, Harvey.”

“I'm calm,” Harvey said. He exhaled, stuffed devils food cake into his mouth, took a moment to chew. “I am. I'm almost impressed, actually. Never thought Bruce Wayne would take _me_ over. You're a pretty hardcore fetishist.”

“I wouldn't exactly call it a fetish,” Bruce said, his own face turning red. “It was for your own good.”

“You tellin' me that you didn't get turned on?” Harvey smirked. “That you didn't enjoy spanking my bare ass?”

Bruce said nothing. Harvey laughed.

“For such a kinky guy, you're kind of a prude,” he said. “But there's no way this was some platonic thing. Even I was turned on for a moment.”

“I noticed.”

“Doesn't mean I enjoyed it!”

“I didn't say that it did.”

Harvey finished his cake in sullen silence. He was still a little prickly, after all. It was to be expected. Harvey Dent was a man used to getting his way, in the courtroom and outside it. _He must be having a hard time reconciling his idea of himself with the reality of the situation,_ Bruce thought. _He spent years building up this tough persona of his, only to have it torn down in the space of a few minutes. Now he knows how I felt when he injected me with that fear toxin. The brat._

After they finished eating, they went to relax in the living room. Bruce sat on the sofa. Harvey lay down on his stomach, his head rested on Bruce's lap. Bruce stroked his dark hair.

“How did you get so strict, anyway?” Harvey asked. “Don't tell me the illustrious Thomas Wayne believed in corporal punishment?”

“Actually, he did,” Bruce said. “Not heavily, but I took my share of discipline. Alfred continued the tradition, after.”

“Alfred? Yeah, the Brits like that kind of thing, huh?”

“I'm a better man for it.”

“You're a freak, is what you are.” Harvey rubbed his bottom. “I'm still sore. I have to sit in court tomorrow, Bruce.”

“More time to let the lesson sink in, then.”

“You really are a sadistic bastard,” Harvey chuckled. “God, if people knew about this … All those scumbags I put away would love it. The Apollo of the courtroom, the White Knight DA, thrown over Bruce Wayne's knees and spanked. Jesus Christ.”

Bruce could not tell whether Harvey was savoring or lamenting it all. He reached over and squeezed the man's bottom. He gave him a light spank. Harvey arched into it, so he gave him a few more.

“Making sure, huh?” he said throatily. “Making sure I'll behave myself?”

“That's right.”

“Right,” Harvey said cynically. “Just making sure, and not getting hard off it at all. Whatever you say, Bruce.”

Bruce slid his briefs off again. He gave the man's ruddy buttocks a few hefty swats. Harvey bit his bottom lip, more pleasured than anything. He got up on his knees and pulled Bruce into a lusty kiss. Bruce removed his shirt while Harvey worked on undressing him.

The sex was as gratifying as the punishment had been for Bruce. Harvey had learned his place in their relationship, and was wonderfully docile. His prideful aggression had been burned away by the spanking, leaving him soft and vulnerable. Bruce mastered the robust man in every way, and Harvey submitted easily.

 _I only hope this lasts,_ Bruce thought as he lay in bed afterwards. Harvey was on his chest, nestled into him in a way he never previously allowed himself to be. Bruce kissed him. _If he can stay this genuine, this sensitive, then I can guide him. I can help him. He finally let me in—No, I forced my way past his defenses. It isn't ideal, but he needed it. And he'll be better for it. Won't he?_

* * *

Late that night, Harvey got a call from Gordon. One of the leads they had gotten from Luis Castell had finally panned out, and they had found the address of a gun maker that offered the type of gun Holiday used. Harvey left to meet the cops on their way to the address. Once he was gone, Bruce suited up, and left to make sure Batman got to the place first.

The address was in Chinatown. Batman's hopes sunk when he found the shop's front door hanging half-open. He prowled inside, finding wreckage and a body. He scowled. Once again, Holiday had been one step ahead of them.

“Goddamn it,” Gordon said wearily when he arrived. “Too late. Again.”

Harvey followed along inside. Under the mask, Bruce was pleased to see that he was still quite chastened. His shoulders hunched slightly and he kept his head down.

“Oh,” Harvey said.

“Oh? That's all you can say?” Gordon asked. He took a hard look at Harvey. “What happened to you? You're not sulking over my reading you the riot act earlier, are you?”

“N-no, I'm not sulking,” Harvey said, face coloring. “Not 'cause of that, anyway.”

“Was it Bruce?” Gordon asked. “Did he finally dump your ass?”

“No.” Harvey shifted on his feet. “He's going to stay with me. I just left him. He was just—pretty angry.”

Gordon put a hand on Harvey's shoulder.

“He's a good man and he'll forgive you,” he said. “ _I_ forgive you. Just don't ever do something so stupid again, all right? Keep it together, Harvey.”

“I will, believe me.”

Gordon was curious as to what had caused the change in Harvey's behavior, but he dropped the matter. Bruce wondered if he would figure it out. He couldn't have failed to notice when Harvey went to sit down and instantly jumped back up. The bruises must be tender now that the sting had worn off. Batman left them to investigate the crime scene and the establishment.

“There was a workshop in the back,” he reported upon his return. “It was behind a locked door that the Holiday killer failed to break into. He must not have had the time. In the workshop there were guns, and many of them were exactly like the one Holiday uses. A .22, silenced by a baby bottle nipple. This is definitely where Holiday got his weapon.”

“But that doesn't tell us anything,” Harvey said. He nodded at the body. “And he's not gonna be saying anything.”

“This might say something.”

Batman handed over a business ledger.

“I already looked through it,” he said. “The records confirm what my source told me: this man has been providing special weapons for Falcone's 'Roman Empire' for years. It leads me to believe that my hypothesis about the Holiday killer having been connected to the Falcone is true. Wherever this is headed, it started with Falcone.”

“We'll have to throw everything that we have at the Roman Empire,” Harvey said. “You'll have to, I mean, Jim. If you would, please?”

“You're actually asking politely?” Gordon marveled. “Of course I will, Harvey. These records should get us a fresh round of warrants and subpoenas.”

“I'll get them for you myself,” Harvey said. “Thanks, Batman. This should help. I'll stop by the GCPD with the evidence and make some calls. Judges are more apt to give you what you want when you ring them up in the dead of night. Excuse me.”

Harvey left, ledger in hand. He had it bagged and tagged by one of the forensic analysts.

“He's suddenly pretty civil,” Gordon snorted. “I guess Bruce Wayne can handle himself better than I thought.”

“I heard what happened,” Batman said. “I obtained a sample of the fear toxin from Wayne. I should be able to develop an antidote for it, in case Jonathan Crane ever tries to use it again.”

“That's great, but Crane's going away for a long time. A patient in his own asylum,” Gordon said. “I don't think he'll be trouble. As for Harvey, well, I'm glad Bruce was able to manage him somehow.”

“How do you think he did it?”

“That, I would rather not reflect on.”

* * *

Far across the city, Arkham Asylum dominated the small island upon which it stood. It had once been a private home named the 'Mercey Mansion', but had been converted to a psychiatric care facility by its last heir, Amadeus Arkham. Amadeus had spent years caring for his mentally ill mother, a paranoid and delusional schizophrenic. Her struggles had driven Amadeus to sympathize with the insane, and he became a renowned psychiatrist, working out of the Metropolis State Psychiatric Hospital. After his mother died, Amadeus returned to Gotham. He decided to turn Mercey Mansion into a psychiatric hospital devoted to the humane care of the severely mentally ill.

Amadeus's life took a tragic turn when one of his Metropolis patients escaped from Metropolis State Psychiatric. Martin 'Mad Dog' Hawkins tracked Amadeus to Gotham, and brutally raped and murdered his wife and young daughter. Amadeus went on with his plans and opened Arkham Asylum. The public praised his unfaltering compassion. 'Mad Dog' himself became one of Arkham's first patients. Six months later, he died during electroshock therapy. The public did not blame Amadeus; it was an accident, these things happen. Arkham Asylum continued to operate. In fact, it outlived its creator, who died a patient in one of its cells.

Like Dr. Amadeus Arkham, Jonathan Crane had now gone from psychiatrist to inmate. After the violent District Attorney had caught him with the fear toxin, there was no reason to deny the truth. He confessed to using the fear toxin on the criminals he evaluated, explaining that he could only judge them sane or insane based on their reaction to pure fear. The police did not accept his logic. How could they? Their pedestrian minds knew nothing about the complex psychology of fear. They could not appreciate how clear fear made everything, how it stripped everything but the truth of a person away. They could never see how miraculous his fear toxin was.

Jonathan was in a strait jacket on his cot, watching moonlight filter in through the bars of his cell's window. The door opened and he sat up. The clack of high heels was softened when they stepped onto the cell's rubber floor. It was past lights' out time, so the cell was dark, but he recognized the silhouette immediately.

“Harleen … ”

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was a brilliant young psychiatrist that had come to Arkham some months back. Jonathan Crane had instantly fallen in love with her, although he had never had the nerve to tell her. The curvaceous blue-eyed blond had a passion for studying criminal psychology. In an effort to make her happy, Jonathan had begun bringing more criminals to Arkham using the fear toxin. He loved the way her eyes lit up every time a new criminal was brought to the asylum.

“Oh, Johnny, what happened?” Harleen asked. Her voice had a slight Jersey accent. “What did you do?”

“I did it for you,” Jonathan confessed. “Dr. Quinzel, I know how much you enjoy studying the criminals. I wanted to make you happy. I'm sorry that I couldn't give you Mr. Maroni.”

Harleen came closer. She looked down at him on the cot, her beautiful face warm. He was relieved that she was not disappointed.

“But you've given yourself to me now,” Harleen said dreamily. “What a wonderful gift, Johnny.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

Harleen bent down and kissed his cheek. It was platonic, but it filled the shy man was joy. She smelled of a sugary perfume. Jonathan breathed the scent in, shutting his eyes. The smell reminded him of carnivals.

“That's right, I suppose I am considered a criminal now,” Jonathan said. “I scared the wits out of them quite literally, like they were nothing but crows and I—the scarecrow. Yes. Yes, I have become the Scarecrow, haven't I?”

“Scarecrow.”

Jonathan shuddered at the way the word rolled off her tongue. Her red lips curled into a girlish smile.

“I like it!” she said. “We'll take care of you, Scarecrow. I'll get to see all the little threads that have woven your delinquent mind. Won't it be fun?”

The thought of Harleen prying apart his mind was very appealing. Jonathan Crane grinned. It had all worked out for the best. It had all been worth it.


	4. Paternity

[June 21, 2015]

Father's Day brought a happy reunion for the Castell family. Bane called Batman to inform him that he had retrieved the man's parents safely from the Falcones. As promised, Bruce was providing them all with a flight out of the city. He drove Luis out to the airport that housed the Wayne family's private airplanes. Bane was waiting by the small jet, the Castell parents by his side. They looked worn, but were unharmed. Luis ran to them, hugging them tearfully. Bruce and Bane watched. It was the first time that Bruce had seen him without his wrestler's mask. He had a rough, brawny face belied by intelligent brown eyes. There were numerous old scars on his face, the largest being a three-inch scar across one high, strong cheekbone. His hair was brown, cut short.

“This was a good thing to do,” Bruce told Bane. “Thank you.”

“They did everything they could to save their son from the prison where I lost my childhood,” Bane said. “I would not let their sacrifices be in vain.”

“You really did escape from Peña Duro, then?”

“I was born there,” Bane said. “The families of criminals and dissenters can be held responsible for their crimes in Santa Prisca. My father left the country before being persecuted for his crimes, so my mother was imprisoned to serve out his life sentence. She birthed me there, and I was charged and sentenced to the same fate. She died when I was six years old, but I survived. Horrible things happened to me, but I lived. My life was saved when a man took me under his wing—a good man, one of the revolutionaries. He was brilliant and cultured, and he educated me. With his training in tactical warfare, I managed to become the king of Peña Duro. I would have stayed there, but they began experimenting on me.”

“Experimenting?”

“I am addicted to the drug that made me like this.” Bane gestured down at his massive body. He was six-foot-eight and three-hundred-and-sixty pounds of pure muscle. “Ask your friend Batman about it. The drug is called 'Venom'.”

“Batman could probably help you.”

“I do not need anyone's help,” Bane said curtly. “I never have. I never will. I fight off the effects of the drug in the Augment Arenas. I will earn enough money there, and then I will return to Santa Prisca. I will rule that island the way that I ruled Peña Duro.”

Bruce worried for the island, but did not dare challenge Bane's plans. Bane spoke of them with a chilling certainty. No words could dissuade him, anyway. Luis came over to them.

“My parents have distant family in Metropolis,” he said. “They want to move in with them there and reestablish their lives. The Falcone organization was run out of Metropolis years ago, so they should be safe. The other revolutionaries from Santa Prisca have an organization that will help them get new identities, new lives. They will be fine.”

“And you, Luis?”

Luis looked between the two larger men. He had to crane his neck back painfully far to look up at Bane. Bane towered nearly a foot above Luis's height.

“I want to stay with you,” he blurted out. “Bane. You saved me. You saved my parents. I—I want to help you!”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. Bane calmly considered the small man. Luis hesitated, then took one of Bane's enormous hands into both of his own.

“I don't ever want to be that powerless again,” he said. “I won't just be a tag-along. I was a prosecutor, I know how to argue. You're an Augment Arena fighter, aren't you? I can get you better deals. I can help you if the law cracks down on the arenas. I could be a sort of manager for you.”

“When did you decide all this?” Bruce asked.

“I've been thinking about it all this time,” Luis said. “Don't get me wrong, I am grateful to you, Bruce, and to Batman. But Bane did the impossible. And I am also from Santa Prisca, by blood if not by birth. I would like to help you if you ever decide to go back there and liberate the island.”

 _I don't think Bane has liberation in mind,_ Bruce thought. He doubted Luis would listen to his doubts. He was looking up at Bane with admiration shining in his large hazel eyes. _I just hope he doesn't have a crush on him. I … honestly think that would be dangerous. Then again, Luis was tenacious_ _in bed, from what I remember. What a strange little guy._

“It is true that I have a group with which I travel. They follow me, and I bring in people that I find useful. But I am a hard master to serve, Luis,” Bane said. “I live in a dangerous world. I always protect my people, that is true, but my word is law for us. I will make you do things that you might not like sometimes.”

“I don't care,” Luis said. “I can't go back to the law. I don't _want_ to defend the laws of the country that abandoned my parents. I have nothing left here. Please, take me with you!”

Bane put a hand atop Luis's head, petting him as if he were an animal. Luis blushed. _Dear God, I think he does have a crush on him,_ Bruce thought. _Should I stop this? I know it's his choice, but will he really be all right with Bane?_

“You remind me of Osito,” Bane said. “Perhaps I can give you a sharp edge, too. Very well. We will drop off your parents in Metropolis, and then you will come with me.”

“Osito?”

“I will explain it to you later.” Bane turned to Bruce. “Thank you for keeping him safe, Mr. Wayne. We will be going now.”

“Yes, thank you, Bruce,” Luis said. “And thank Batman for me.”

“I will.”

Bruce shook Luis's small hand, then Bane's big one. He was introduced to Luis's parents and told them that if they ever needed anything, to give him a call. They thanked him as well, then everyone got onto the plane. Luis waved to him from one of the windows. _It's a nice family,_ Bruce thought wistfully. _Good people._

* * *

Later that day, Bruce went to visit his own parents at the cemetery. Harvey Dent accompanied him this time. Since his first adult spanking, he had mellowed considerably. He was taking low doses of lithium, and was no longer a slave to his temper. He did not feel the need to cling to his pride around Bruce anymore, so he relied upon him more. They had drawn closer over the past month. Harvey even came close to happiness once in a while.

Bruce laid roses and a Father's Day card at the base of the headstone. He closed his eyes, remembering his father, Thomas Wayne. He had learned the value of discipline from his father. He had been strict without being cruel, and never crossed the line into abuse. Not once had he ever struck Bruce in the throes of anger, which was more than Bruce could say about the way he treated his lovers. After his death, Bruce had suffered a period of rebellious confusion; he had not been able to function without the calm, sure voice of his father telling him what was right and what was wrong. If Alfred had not reluctantly taken up the task of disciplining him, he might have been lost forever. _Poor Alfred, though,_ Bruce thought. _He looked so worried, and I actually threatened to fire him. It must have been jarring to have to punish his 'master', and he was never fond of corporal punishment. But he did, and it's a good thing. I was going into a very dark place. Batman might stand for very different things, if I had stayed in that mindset._

“Thank you, dad,” Bruce said to the gravestone. “I miss you. I love you.”

When he looked up again, Harvey was gone. Alfred pointed out the way he had gone. Bruce tracked him to a simpler lot in the cemetery. Harvey hunted among the plain stones until he found a particular one and stood over it. Bruce joined him. The stone bore the name of Harvey's father. Doing the math in his head, Bruce saw that he had died when Harvey was sixteen.

“Heya, dad.” Harvey spit on the grave. “Happy fucking Father's Day.”

“Harvey … ”

“It's all right, I always get that out of my system on Father's Day,” Harvey said with a hard grin. “Liver failure got him in the end, big surprise. I managed to talk my way out of ending up in foster care. Gordon helped me out after I promised I wouldn't use my freedom to get into trouble. I rebelled a little, drinking, smoking, but then I got serious about school. I didn't want to end up a bum like my old man. I got a scholarship a year later, and the rest is history. Here I am. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a crazy old alcoholic bum, at least.”

Harvey spit on the grave again, wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Come on. Let's get out of here,” he said.

They took their time walking back to the car in the greener lot of the cemetery. The day was bright and warm. Harvey's shoulders were a little hunched, and his hands were shoved in his pockets. Bruce wondered if the coin was in one of them. It probably was. He had spanked Harvey for the flippant coin toss once (“Heads, I'll stop drinking. Tails, I won't. Oh, look, I win!”), and had not seen the coin since, but he had the feeling Harvey always had it close.

“What about your mother?”

“Dunno.”

“You don't _know_?”

“She disappeared when I was two,” Harvey said. “I guess she had enough of my dad and ran off. Or maybe he killed her and threw her body somewhere. I wouldn't put it past him. All I know is that I never had a mother.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Harvey said. “She must have been a fool or worse to have a kid from someone like my old man.”

“If she hadn't, you wouldn't be here.” Bruce took his hand. “With me.”

Harvey tried to return his hand to his pocket, but it was too late. Bruce shook it until it opened. The silver dollar was there. Bruce gave him a look, but said nothing. Harvey hastily pocketed the coin, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Oh, yeah, here.”

Harvey shoved a card into Bruce's hands. It was the most fetishistic Father's Day card Bruce had ever seen. Reading it brought light spots of pink to his face.

“They've got a card for everything, don't they?” Harvey said with an innocent smile.

They climbed into the car and Harvey kissed him.

“Happy Father's Day, daddy,” he teased. “Hahaha!”

“Did you take your medication today?”

“Not yet.”

“Harvey—”

“You see?” Harvey laughed. “There it is, Daddy Bruce. Ahahaha!”

Bruce pulled the man over his knees, but Harvey went on laughing. A little self-consciously, Bruce smacked his bottom. Harvey was beginning to see the discipline as a joke, and that worried Bruce. _I might have to be harsher with him soon, if I want him to take it seriously._

“All right, sorry, sorry!” Harvey said, with one last chuckle. “Hey, at least put the privacy screen up! Jeez!”

“Do not worry, sir,” Alfred said dryly. “My eyes never leave the road.”

“That's not the point! Ow! Put it up, Bruce!”

Bruce did not bother. He finished the brief spanking and let Harvey back up. Harvey straightened his suit jacket, giving Alfred an affronted glare through the rear-view mirror. Bruce kissed him to ease the sting.

“Behave, Harvey,” Bruce told him. He ruffled his hair. “All right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harvey said. “I just hate taking that stuff. It makes me sleepy and unfocused. I gotta be sharp today. Maroni is finally getting his psychiatric evaluation, and I can't have any shady psych trying to pull anything.”

“Then you should definitely take your medicine,” Bruce said. “The GCPD can't afford to have a repeat of the last time.”

“I know that, Bruce, I'm not an idiot,” Harvey grumbled. “I'm not going to fly off the handle.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“You spend a lot of time at the GCPD, don't you?” Harvey said. He kicked his feet up on the back of the front seats, to Alfred's irritation. “Between you, me, and Batman, the GCPD has become a pretty popular tourist destination.”

“I like to see my donations being put to good use,” Bruce said. “Besides, I'm mostly there for you. When I'm not running Wayne Enterprises, I usually gravitate to where my partner is.”

“Must suck being with me, then,” Harvey said. “I'll bet Halloran took you all kinds of fun places, while I'm always at the GCPD.”

“To be honest, I prefer the GCPD,” Bruce said. “I've never been good at socializing, and that's all Bobby ever wanted to do. At least there's focus at the GCPD. The work being done there is purposeful. I hated standing still at meaningless parties and at clubs.”

“You sound like an old man!” Harvey laughed. “Old Daddy Bruce!”

“Please stop using that word,” Bruce sighed. “I'm not out to be anyone's father. I'm just trying to help you, Harvey.”

“Keep tellin' yourself that,” Harvey said. “Look, I know your intentions might not be bad, but let's face it: you're a sadistic control freak, like that Halloran kid told the press in the blind item. Just admit it, it's a fetish.”

Bruce said nothing. Harvey laughed even harder. He took out the coin.

“Here, let's flip on it,” he said. “Heads, you have to say the words, okay? You have to admit that you're a control freak with a fetish for discipline.”

“And if I win?” Bruce said. He knew he should not encourage the coin toss, but he wanted to beat Harvey at his own silly game. “It's 'tails', so it's only appropriate that I get to redden _your_ tail. Isn't that _fair_?”

“Haha. You got me there. Okay, here goes.”

This time, Bruce at least had the decency to put the privacy screen up.

* * *

 _Never should have played that stupid game,_ Harvey thought. He smoothed his rumpled clothes, straightened his tie, got his hair in order, but there was nothing to be done about his burning face (or bottom). Bruce smiled coolly at him. _Smug bastard._

“Ah, ah. Wait.”

Bruce stopped him before he opened the car door. He took a bottle of water from the small bar and retrieved Harvey's medication from his pocket. He put the pill on Harvey's tongue personally, and Harvey washed it down with water. Then he kissed Harvey so passionately that he shivered.

“Just making sure you swallowed it,” he said. “Let's go.”

They exited the car and headed for the GCPD. Harvey did his best to collect himself, though it was difficult to be his usual authoritative self with his buttocks smarting. _I'm letting him get too used to that,_ he thought sullenly. _I'm going to have to break up with him or push him off a bridge or something pretty soon. I can't just let him go on humiliating me like that. Games are games, but he really means to_ discipline _me. He's so fucking full of himself._

They met up with Gordon in the hallway outside the interrogation rooms. Harvey suspected that Gordon had figured out Bruce's method of dealing with him, furthering his embarrassment. He saw Gordon taking in the blush on his face and his wrinkled clothes. Gordon seemed amused, a little relieved. _So he thinks I should be taken in hand like a child, too. Damn it! This is all Bruce's fault. Arrogant, conceited, uptight son-of-a—_

The door to the interrogation room opened and closed. A blond woman with a white doctor's coat bearing the 'Arkham Asylum' logo stepped out, red high heels clicking on the linoleum. She wore glasses that could not hide a pair of big blue eyes, filled with girlish innocence and womanly wisdom. Gordon introduced her: Dr. Harleen Quinzel, the psychiatrist that had evaluated Sal Maroni's competence.

“Wait, you mean it's over?” Harvey asked. He checked his watch. “But we got here on time.”

“I must have confused the time,” Gordon said, not bothering to make the lie convincing. “Sorry, Harvey.”

“You—”

Bruce put a hand on Harvey's shoulder, checking his outburst. Harvey's hands balled into fists. _They're both guiding me by the hand like a goddamn infant! I know I have my temper, but this! Can't they even trust me to control myself anymore? Even Jim is lying to me now! 'For my own good', I bet that's what he thinks, just like Bruce! How dare they!_

Harvey almost shook with rage, but the mood soon dissipated. He hid his fists in his pockets and smiled down at Dr. Quinzel.

“So, how did it go?” he asked, trying his best to keep his tone even. “You don't think that the second most successful criminal mastermind in the Gotham mafia is actually insane—do you?”

Gordon frowned at him. Harvey kept his eyes on Dr. Quinzel. He wanted to rip the tablet computer on her arm away and see the results for himself.

“Mr. Maroni is perfectly sane, mundanely so,” Harleen said. “There is no question that he is fit to stand trial. Dr. Crane might not have bothered trying the fear toxin on him. He wouldn't have made for a very interesting patient.”

She sounded oddly disappointed. Harvey didn't worry about it. The only thing that mattered was her answer. He let go of the breath he had been holding and shook Harleen's delicate hand. He thanked her for her time, and then she took her leave of the men.

“Finally, some _good_ luck!” he beamed. “Let's celebrate with some of the shitty PD coffee. That damn medication is making my mouth dry.”

They got coffees (Harvey got himself two cups) and retired to Jim's office. Harvey discussed his progress on Maroni's case, gulping coffee. He flinched a little when he threw himself onto a chair, but even that did not sour his mood.

 _Well, let Bruce and Jim have their petty little control,_ Harvey thought. _This is how I take control! They have to respect me for what I do in court. When I put Sal Maroni away, the whole city will have to respect me! It's going to be the trial of a lifetime! I can't wait!_

“Maroni is going down, that's for damn sure!” Harvey said, slamming a fist down on Jim's desk for emphasis. “He's finished. Where are we on the Holiday case?”

“There was one note in the Chinatown gun maker's ledger that I found to be of interest,” Jim said. “Here's a copy of the page. Do you see there? That entry? Every sale has a customer number on it. That one appears only once. Forensics has managed to trace who the numbers belong to. That number corresponds to Alberto Falcone. The sale was for a .22. The problem is, the sale took place after the Halloween murder of Johnny Viti, not to mention the fact that Holiday eventually killed Alberto. Still, I thought it was too strange to be a coincidence.”

Harvey swallowed, his mirth cut short. There was another sale for a .22, dated the day after he had been beaten at the mob family wedding. He tapped his finger on the customer number.

“Do you know … who this customer was, Jim?”

“Hm?” Jim leaned over Harvey's shoulder to read the document. “Oh, that's a general purpose number that corresponds to sales to 'civilians'. I guess whoever bought that gun wasn't affiliated with the mafia or any other criminal enterprise. I saw that, too, and I thought it was suspicious, but there is no way to track down who the customer was.”

Harvey knew who the customer was, but he kept it to himself. He had not fully figured out all the links in the Holiday case yet, but he was certain that there were two or more Holiday killers. The customer that had purchased that first gun had been his wife, Gilda. He would never know her reasons, but he knew that she had somehow managed to kill Viti on Halloween. _Probably trying to protect me,_ he thought. _She would have done anything for me, even kill. I never knew she had been pushed that far. Poor Gilda. While I was cheating on her with Bruce here, she was carrying the burden of murder. My God, I'm a shit …_

“Maybe Alberto bought the same gun the Holiday killer used because he intended to kill Holiday himself,” Bruce said. “If the customer who purchased the first gun is Holiday, then it makes sense that Alberto would have bought a .22 after Halloween. It doesn't exactly fit the characterization we have of Alberto, but stress does strange things to people. Perhaps he planned to hunt Holiday down and kill him with his own weapon.”

“That does make sense,” Gordon said. “If Alberto was killed for hunting Holiday, then he might have gotten close to him. We should take a closer look at Alberto's activities during the Holiday murders. I'll also call the coroner and ask what's taking so long with the goddamn autopsy. I haven't even been let in to see the body. It's been niggling at me since January. It might go beyond red tape.”

“Harvey, are you okay?”

Harvey looked up at Bruce, eyes dazed. He hated the fog the lithium put him in. He shook himself out of his reflection and smiled. _Let Gilda's memory rest in peace. I took that first gun from evidence myself. Bruce and Gordon had no idea that I sneaked up to the PD in the dead of night and grabbed it before it could be cataloged. Ha! I'll bet Bruce would give me quite a spanking if he knew! But I'll never let anyone see that gun. It's been in my safe at my dad's place ever since. I'll bury it by her grave sometime. She deserves an untarnished memory, at least._

“Yeah, I'm good,” Harvey lied. “Just trying to fit all the pieces together. This has been going on for so damn long. Seven months now, right? Almost eight? It's exhausting. I can't wait until we have this goddamn Holiday freak behind bars.”

 _Gilda started it, but she's not the real Holiday killer,_ Harvey thought. _It was probably just a coincidence that she shot Viti on Halloween. So what happened then? Someone liked the idea and took up the cause? Yeah, that sounds about right, a copycat that outdid the original. So who is it? Who in the world is Holiday?_

“I'm going to go to City Hall and see what I can do,” Harvey said, standing. “Been sittin' in that chair too long. Bruce, I'll see you tonight?”

“Of course, Harvey.”

Harvey knew that old school Gordon was not entirely comfortable with their PDA, but he wanted to get him back for making him miss Dr. Quinzel's interview. He gave Bruce a slow, deliberately messy kiss before leaving the office.

“He did that to spite me,” Gordon said.

“I know,” Bruce said. “I don't think he liked you giving him the wrong time for Maroni's evaluation.”

“There was no way that I was going to risk him going after Quinzel the way he went after Crane,” Gordon said. “He's been much better since you—since whatever went down between you two on Mother's Day. But Harvey is still Harvey. He needs a firm hand sometimes.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

Gordon glanced at Bruce, caught his secretive smile. He was a talented enough detective to have an idea of what was going on between the two men. There were times when Harvey tensed upon sitting down, and moved more stiffly than usual. He would have thought it was a medical condition, but the discomfort coincided with a change of posture and tone in Harvey: he was milder, and his shoulders hunched just a little. Jim had seen Harvey act the exact same way in childhood following his father's beatings. When the realization dawned on Gordon, he had been very uncomfortable with the ensuing mental images it brought. It was bizarre, but it made a kind of sense. He had always wondered what vices Bruce might be hiding. He had never bought the idea that Bruce Wayne had grown up to be as perfect as he appeared after witnessing his parents' being gunned down in cold blood. Gordon supposed that he played with violence as a way of confronting it on his own terms.

“Say, Bruce?”

“Hm?”

“I know Harvey's a pain in the ass and all.” Gordon instantly regretted his choice of words. He cleared his throat. “But you wouldn't _hurt_ him, would you?”

“Not really, no,” Bruce said carefully. “Why do you ask, Jim?”

“No reason,” Jim said. “He's had a hard life, Bruce. I wouldn't want anyone to hurt him the way his father did again. He deserves better than that.”

“I know,” Bruce said. “Jim, I don't know what you're thinking, but … everything that I do, everything that I've _done_ , has been to protect Harvey from himself. I know that I failed him last year at the Frost Ball, but I don't intend to ever let him down again. I love him, Jim.”

“I don't doubt it,” Jim said. “That's what worries me. Sometimes we hurt the ones we love the most in the end.”

“I know what I'm doing,” Bruce said. “Do you want details, Jim?”

“Er, I'll pass, Bruce.”

Gordon had seen it all in Gotham City, but the idea of Bruce Wayne fetishistically disciplining DA Harvey Dent took the cake. Harvey had always hated the upper class with a passion; if anything, Jim would have expected him to try to hurt the wealthy Wayne heir. But Bruce was clearly in charge, as evidenced by the new respect for him in Harvey's eyes. Jim had even seen handcuff bruising on Harvey's wrists a few times. Vague notions of leather gear and whips came to mind. Straight as he was, thinking of the handsome young DA all tied up and spanked was almost enough to make Gordon question himself. _You are one strange case, Bruce Wayne,_ he thought. He tried to ignore the heat beneath his collar. _I don't even want to know how he managed it._

Gordon was mercifully dragged from his thoughts by an urgent knock at the door. He called to come in and a young officer rushed to his desk. She announced that Maroni had been murdered, and Jim and Bruce jumped to their feet.

“WHAT!” Jim roared. “How in the hell did that happen? He's in the holding cells, for God's sake!”

“Oh,” the cop gasped. “No, sir, not Salvatore Maroni—his father!”

“Oh thank Christ. Why didn't you say that in the first place?” Jim groaned. “Tell me what happened.”

It turned out that the Holiday killer had struck early today. The retired Maroni patriarch had been murdered in his own tomato garden at his estate. Bruce took his leave of Gordon, who left in a hurry to drive out to the crime scene. Bruce would meet him there—or, rather, _Batman_ would.

* * *

 _I may have lost that coin toss, but all in all, today has been a **lucky** day_.

Harvey Dent was smiling as he walked downstairs to the maximum security holding cells at the GCPD. He ran the silver dollar up and down his knuckles, whistling softly. He stopped in front of Sal Maroni's holding cell. The mafia boss ran up to the bars, gripping them so tightly his knuckles went white.

“What's going on, Dent?” he demanded to know. “Someone told me that something happened to my father. What is it?”

“Someone told you?” Harvey cocked his head. “Ha. Someone's going to lose their job. Who is this someone, Sal?”

“Tell me what happened!”

“Tell me who told you.”

Sal gave him a name. Harvey nodded, not surprised. There were so many dirty cops that he was never surprised when one turned. At least he could fire this rat.

“Tell me what happened!” Sal ordered. “All right?”

“Sure, Sal, I'll tell you,” Harvey said smoothly. He paused to watch the mob boss stew. “Your father was shot, Sal. Right in his own backyard, so to speak. Two shots to the head. Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. Well, excepting yourself.”

“Oh God,” Sal whispered. “Is he all right? I gotta get outta here!”

“He's dead.”

Sal made a moaning noise and clutched his head. Harvey's grin broadened. _These damn mob guys, they can dish it out, but they can't take it. Well, you're **going to** take it, Sal. Let's see you grieve for your father while he burns in hell. At least my Gilda is in a better place._

“I gotta see him,” Sal said. “I have to get out of here! Just to see—to make sure. I have to see him, Dent! I'll do whatever you want, just take me to him.”

“I don't think so, Sal,” Harvey said. “Your lawyer is on his way, and I'm sure he'll file all the requests you want. But you know what? I'm going to shoot every single one of them down. You're not getting out of your cage, Maroni. You're _never_ getting out of it.”

“You bastard!” Maroni shouted at him. “You sick bastard! You're enjoying this!”

“That's right, I am,” Harvey said. “What did you expect? You killed my wife. My only regret is not plugging those holes into your old man myself.”

“Goddamn you!”

“How about we play a game, Sal?” Harvey held up the coin. “Heads, I might just consider letting you out for your father's funeral. Tails, I shoot down that request, too. You're an only child and your top people have already been taken out by Holiday, right? The state will throw your dear old dad into the cheapest hole they can, if they don't cremate him. You're Catholic, right, Sal? You probably wouldn't want that.”

Sal stared at him, dumb-stricken. Harvey laughed at the look on his face.

“So here we go, Sal!”

The electricity made Harvey's hand tremble, but he stilled it. He flipped the coin, caught it, and held it on his hand. Maroni looked down at it, unable to speak. It came up 'tails'. _Thank God! I don't know what I would have done if I had lost that one. Consider it for two seconds before saying 'no', I guess._

“That's a shame, Sal, it really is,” Harvey said sarcastically. “Looks like you won't be burying Papa Maroni yourself. I hope he was _very_ specific about his funeral arrangements in his will. But even if he was, sometimes these things fall by the wayside. Lawyers lose certain documents, loopholes pop up, you know how it is. He's already burning in Hell, Sal. Maybe the rest of him will follow suit.”

“You're sick,” Sal said in amazement. “You are a twisted, sick bastard.”

“It's not nice to talk about yourself that way, Sal.” Harvey pocketed the coin. “I'll see you in court.”

Sal reached through the bars, but Harvey was just out of reach. He turned swiftly and strode away. He stopped before leaving.

“Oh, and Sal?”

“Fuck you you fucking sadistic psychopathic son-of-a-bitch! I'll kill you for this, Dent! If it's the last thing I do, I'll fucking _kill_ you!”

“Happy Fathers' Day.”


	5. Firework

[July 4, 2015]

The fireworks started early that Independence Day. A bomb went off at one of the Gotham City Bank establishments and the security guards that survived the explosion had their throats slashed. A secondary explosion blew open the vault, and five million dollars in cash was stolen. Jim Gordon, Batman, and a disgruntled Harvey Dent met at the crime scene at six-o-clock in the morning.

“This is just fucking great,” Harvey muttered, kicking debris out of his way. “More lunatics.”

Under Batman's mask, Bruce had a pretty good idea why Harvey was so grumpy. They had been up very late the past night, getting an early start on fireworks of their own. Harvey had only fallen asleep three hours ago, satiated and happy on Bruce's chest. Gordon's call had startled them both, and Harvey had been very reluctant to leave the air-conditioned hotel suite. He had no idea that Bruce had left directly after him, and was standing here now, equally tired, in Batman's suit.

“The security footage caught an image of a man in a full suit,” Gordon said, showing them the picture on his tablet. “The suit is dark gold and brown. It looks professional, although the freaks have gotten pretty sophisticated with their homemade outfits.”

Batman scrutinized the image. The ears on the mask looked very familiar. If the tight suit had not clearly shown a man's figure, he would have thought Catwoman had gotten a new costume.

“The security guards all had their throats cut through with a large hunting knife,” Batman said. “There was too much smoke for the cameras to capture much of the fighting, but from little I saw, the suspect seems to be experienced in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Who isn't these days?” Harvey yawned.

Batman paused, touching the comm button on his mask. Alfred informed him that the suspect's vehicle had been sighted. He took his leave of Harvey and Gordon to resume the chase.

“For every freak that goes down, two more pop up,” Harvey complained. “This city's become a magnet for 'em.”

“You said it.”

“At least the normal criminals are goin' down,” Harvey said. “Maroni's trial is next month. I can't wait to put that piece of shit away once and for all. Haha! The look on his face when his request to bury his father was denied will be nothing compared to the one when he's convicted!”

“I know you have reason to be happy, but don't enjoy yourself too much, Harvey,” Gordon said. “His empire is weakened and he will be going to prison soon, but Maroni is still dangerous. Be careful, Harvey. He's been out for your blood since that request got rejected.”

“Fuck him,” Harvey said blandly. “He's toothless. It's a shame there was no way to get Papa Maroni cremated, though. That would have really pissed off old Sal! Hahaha!”

 _He may play at masochism for Bruce, but he's as sadistic as ever when it comes to criminals,_ Jim thought. _He's a little_ too _sadistic for his own good. I don't blame him. We've all grown up crushed under the tread of the corrupt rich and the flashy mafiosos. Still, this isn't doing much for his mental health. And Bruce says he's dropped his medication again. I guess he's adjusted to whatever Bruce is doing to him enough to go back to ignoring his advice. Oh well. His obedience was nice while it lasted._

* * *

Robert Halloran was shaken out of sleep by his partner, Dr. Simon Hurt. He came to in a daze, last night's drugs and alcohol trying to lull him back to sleep. He whined and tried to lie back down. Simon gave his face a smart slap on the cheek, and he climbed out of bed.

“What is it? So early,” Bobby yawned hugely, scratching his mussed black hair. “What time is it? Don't I get another hour?”

“This is an emergency,” Simon said, handing him his phone. “Look at your texts. There is a situation at the club.”

“Huh?”

Bobby scrolled through his messages. The Black Glove Society, the fledgling underworld organization operating out of the club of the same name, had all sent him urgent texts saying to come to the club. Even their leader, crime boss The Penguin, had left an angry cockney-accented voice message.

“I guess we should get over there, huh?”

“I would think so.”

Bobby groomed and dressed in a hurry. Since Simon was also a member of the Black Glove Society, they drove to the club together. It was closed at this early hour, so the building signs were all dark. They scanned their keycards and went in. The Society was gathered in the center of the large dance floor.

In the past months, their little group had come up in the criminal world. The Penguin now controlled most of the territory that had previously belonged to the Maroni and Falcone families. His clothing were no longer shabby, but of the finest cuts and fabrics. Even his top hat was glossier than the previous one. Roman Sionis had finally bought new fashions, although he tended towards an uninspiring palette of black and white. Victor Zsasz looked the same as ever, but there was a deeper mania in his eyes since he started doing God-knew-what for the Penguin. Anton and Natalia Knight had been working directly beneath the Penguin as thieves. They were now in full costume: skintight black leather suits and domino masks; her suit had a deep 'V' in the front, displaying her ample cleavage. Anton was the 'Night-slayer', and Natalia went by the handle 'Nocturna'. By the adoptive siblings stood an unfamiliar character. He was dressed in gold and brown, with a Batman-like cape. The ears on his mask were rounder than Batman's, more akin to a cat's than a bat's.

“There you two are!” Penguin growled. “Get over here, and let's put this to a vote!”

“What's going on?”

“Bobby!” the cat-eared masked man greeted him. “It's been an age! Good to see you!”

He removed his mask and a shock of curling blond hair spilled out. His face was tanned and handsome, roughened by golden stubble. There were more lines at the corners of his blue eyes, but Bobby recognized him instantly: Thomas Blake.

“I thought you were in Africa?”

“I was!” Thomas said joyfully. “I was! I found myself there! I thought that I was a hunter before, but I was nothing but prey! Not anymore, Bobby! I've been reborn!”

“Reborn as the world's biggest bloody idiot!” Penguin snapped. “Look at this!”

With his cane, the Penguin tipped over a large lumpy bag. Stacks of cash poured out.

“You rob a bank?” Bobby joked.

Silence.

“Oh my God— _did you_ rob a bank?”

“I certainly did!” Thomas boasted. “With a little help from my dear old friends here.”

“I never gave permission for this!” Penguin raged. “Night-slayer, Nocturna, you should have known better! I should have the three of you shot and thrown in the harbor!”

“We thought that it would just be another easy job,” Anton Knight groaned. “Blake never said anything about bombs.”

“Or about murdering the guards like that,” Natalia added distastefully. “He _hunted_ them down. The man's a psychopath!”

“That's why I want him and his money out of here!” Penguin said.

“Now wait a minute,” Roman Sionis spoke up. “That is five million dollars. We could use it.”

“I have no use for traceable cash,” Penguin said. “All that is is Batman-bait! How long do you think it will be until he comes looking for this-this … _Catman_!”

“Yes, that's it!” Thomas said cheerfully. “That's who I am! Catman!”

“Right. Congratu-fucking-lations,” Penguin said. “Now would you kindly fuck off? If Batman traces you to this club and finds all this—we're done! The Black Glove Society will be finished!”

“So let's hide him,” Roman said. “I'm sure you have safe houses. We can take an expense fee out of the cash. It's not completely un-spendable, we just have to be smart about it.”

“No, it's too dangerous!” Penguin said. “That's my word. If the rest of you have a problem with it, then we'll do this democratically. Vote! Yay or nay? And hurry up!”

“I agree with the Penguin,” Simon said. “I'm sure Bobby does, too. The Black Glove Society only exists after all this time because of our stealth. If we start dropping bodies and setting off bombs, the Batman will come after us, and we are not strong enough to deal with him yet.”

“Yeah, what he said,” Bobby added. He always went along with what Simon told him these days. It was too painful not to. The idea of Batman—of Bruce Wayne—catching him in the midst of these criminal dealings also made him nervous (if a little excited, too).

“I vote 'yay',” Roman said. “It's five million dollars!”

“I'm voting with the boss,” Zsasz said. He always went along with the Penguin.

Anton and Natalia shared a look. One always got the feeling they were communicating without speaking during these glances. Bobby wondered if they were telepathic.

“We vote 'nay',” Anton said. “You botched everything, Blake! We operate solely based on total stealth, and you brought us into a fray like that!”

“We're a class act,” Natalia sniffed.

A low, unfamiliar voice said, “Speaking of stealth.”

They looked around in alarm, and smoke exploded around them. Bobby's eyes stung from it and he coughed. Simon grabbed him by the shoulder hard.

“Ohhh bloody hell, it's the Batman!” Penguin moaned. “That's it! Everyone out! Leave this fool to fight his own battle!”

Everyone made for the emergency exit. The Batman did not move to stop any of them but Thomas Blake, who was pulled back to the dance floor by a grappling line. Simon tried to pull Bobby along, but Bobby slipped out of his grasp.

_Bruce._

Bobby made his way to one of the booths and sat down. He was as calm as if he were going to order drinks. Simon swore, and then followed the others out. Bobby knew there would be hell to pay later, but he did not care.

“Thomas Blake,” Batman said. “You've returned from Africa to become a murderer?”

“It's all just another sport!” Blake said, putting his mask back on. “Don't tell me you don't enjoy the hunt? I know you do!”

Catman took out a hunting knife still dirty with blood and flew at Batman. He was fast, and very skilled. He was smart enough to try the knife on the joints of Batman's armor, where it was thinnest. When this accomplished nothing, he swiped upwards towards the uncovered part of his face. Batman narrowly avoided having his mouth sliced apart. He narrowed his eyes, assessing Catman. The next time they came together, Batman easily avoided him, and punched him hard in the stomach.

“Batman, gun!” Bobby shouted.

The warning helped. The gun had been holstered to his belt behind his back, hidden by the cape. Smart. He drew it before he lifted himself up from Batman's fist, and almost had it aimed at Batman's side when Bobby yelled. Batman twisted his arm and heard bones breaking. The gun fell uselessly to the floor.

“It's over, Blake,” Batman said. “Stop fighting.”

With his good arm, Blake furiously swiped with his knife. The aggression increased his speed. Bruce suffered a gash across his cheek. He did not give Blake the chance to do more harm. He out-matched the hunter and restrained him before long. Then, he called Gordon and told him to get to the club.

“That was awesome, B—Batman!” Bobby clapped. He had almost slipped and named Bruce; there would have been a special kind of hell to pay for that. “Wow!”

Batman turned on him and Bobby stopped smiling mid-clap. Batman grabbed him by the arm roughly and pulled him up to the owner's office. Bobby did not need to be told to let him in.

“What the hell are you doing, Bobby?” Batman asked furiously. “This isn't a game!”

“If you were eavesdropping like you always do, you heard our vote,” Bobby said. “We had nothing to do with the violence at the bank, that was all Blake.”

“That doesn't mean your little club isn't committing crimes,” Batman snarled. “Your hands aren't clean, Bobby. You're aiding and abetting criminals!”

“We all need a hobby.”

Batman grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shook him.

“What's the matter with you, Bobby?” he asked. “You're going to get yourself incarcerated or killed. Does your life really mean that little to you?”

“What if it does?”

“Then you're a fool,” Batman said softly. He released him. “And I won't let you throw it away. Your life may not mean anything to you, but it means a lot to _me_. And as you always reminded me, I am a control freak.”

“Bruce … ”

“Don't ever say that name when I'm in this,” Batman said. “There isn't anything to charge you with tonight, Robert, but I'm going to keep my eye on you. The moment you break the law, you **will** go down. It's the only thing I can do to protect you now.”

“How romantic,” Bobby said, rolling his eyes. “Save the Dark Knight crap. I don't need your protection. I don't need you. I have Simon now.”

“All that man does is hurt you, Bobby,” Batman said. “He doesn't love you. He's using you.”

“It's none of your business, anyway,” Bobby said. “Go back to your precious District Attorney. Are you controlling him yet?”

Batman said nothing.

“I thought so,” Bobby said. “That guy's not like me, you know. I can't wait until he gets sick of it and leaves you. You're going to end up alone, Batman. You're going to end up dead and alone.”

“Maybe.” Batman ruffled Bobby's hair. “But if I go down protecting the people and the city that I love, it will have been worth it.”

“You're so full of it,” Bobby murmured. He frowned, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Gotham is no place for heroes. You'll see.”

“Bobby?”

“What?”

“Have you been talking to the press about Bruce Wayne?”

“What?”

Bruce told him about the blind item articles. Bobby looked confused.

“It wasn't me,” he said. “I don't talk about you to anyone. But, one of the others might have said something.”

“You told your friends about our relationship?”

“No, but we're all really tight,” Bobby said with a shrug. “We've had orgies together. I wasn't a masochist before Bruce Wayne, and I am now. It isn't hard to figure out.”

“I'm sorry, you know.”

“For what?”

“For spanking you that time,” Bruce said. “I had no right to do that. I'm sorry.”

“Who cares?” Bobby murmured. “I deserved it.”

“All you deserve is to be happy, Bobby.”

Bobby turned his face, saying nothing. Batman gripped his shoulder briefly.

“Take care of yourself, Robert.”

With that, Batman was gone. Bobby sank down on one of the sofas, rubbing his fists into his eyes. _I still miss him. Even after all this time, I still miss Bruce,_ he thought miserably. _I'll never stop missing him. I'll never stop loving him. Damn him. No, damn the Batman! He came between us. He was the lie that tore us apart. Or is it the other way around? Was Bruce the lie all along? I don't even know anymore._

Bobby went downstairs to deal with the police. Afterwards, he would go face Simon. Even if Simon did hurt him, it was better to be with him than to be left alone to his memories of Bruce. Besides, he liked being relegated to a boy by Simon's discipline. When he was playing the child for Simon, he did not have to think, he only did as he was told. Life was easier that way. Bruises faded, welts cooled eventually, but heartbreak never died. Pain was unavoidable in life, Bobby had learned. He had picked the kind of pain he could deal with best, and he would not risk the kind Bruce had inflicted upon him ever again.

* * *

After the hectic morning, Bruce caught some hours of sleep at home. In the afternoon, he went out to pay a visit to his friend, Selina Kyle. She let him up to her chic, if haphazardly organized, apartment. Bruce ignored the few stolen artifacts and art pieces she kept in plain sight. They sat on the sofa. The TV was on.

“You have got to be kidding me, right?” Selina said, lips curled into a disgusted smile. “ _Catman_? They're calling him _Catman_?”

Bruce explained the morning's events to her. She laughed and groaned alternatively. She had once dated Thomas Blake for the sole purpose of teaching the great hunter a lesson. When she was not a thief, Selina was an animal activist, and her favorite animals were cats. She had stolen Blake's hunting trophies, pelts and all, and burned them. Blake had been struggling with debt caused by his big game hunting, and the robbery left him penniless. Not only that, but the loss of his collection had psychologically unbalanced him. Thomas confronted Selina when she was Catwoman, but he had been no match for her whip. She would have strangled him with the whip if Batman had not stepped in and stopped her. In a frenzy of humiliation and destitution, Thomas had fled to Africa to find out whether he was predator or prey.

“I guess he thinks he has his answer,” Selina said with an amused sniff. “Catman! Of all the ridiculous—You should have let me kill him that night!”

“You're not a murderer, Selina.”

“If that bastard ever comes for me, that'll change,” Selina said. “What an irritating man. Thanks for putting him away, though. Did you get him good?”

“I broke his arm.”

“Should have broken both of them.”

Bruce remembered when he had once broken both of Floyd Lawton's hands to stop him from pulling off a hit. Despite his justifications, he still felt guilty over that. He shook his head.

“Only what's necessary, Selina.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Bruce.”

“You sound like Harvey,” Bruce chuckled. “And Bobby. I know that I'm prone to violence, I'm not unaware of that. But I do my best to control it.”

“Has Harvey had a taste of your control by now, then?” Selina laughed. “Oh, Bruce, you should have sent me a video!”

Selina was something of a dominatrix herself, Bruce had discovered from her failed attempts at flirting him into heterosexuality. Somehow, she always managed to pry juicy tidbits about his sex life out of him. He knew that she could be trusted with his secrets, however, and her worldliness made her advice helpful. Bruce had his own experience, but he lacked Selina's pragmatism. He wondered if it was a female quality to be able to balance passion and realism, or one of her particular talents.

“He's a pompous one, isn't he? Your Harvey Dent,” Selina said. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief. “I can't imagine that went over well, pun intended. He must have been furious.”

“Oh, he was,” Bruce said. “I think that first time, he threatened to dig up my parents' bodies and burn them.”

“Oh dear.”

“But he came around.”

“Did he have a choice?”

“No.”

Selina laughed wickedly. She sat with both feet on her chair, curled in a feline manner. She was wearing a black leisure suit with a stylized cat face on the shirt, and her short black hair was loose around her face. She was a beautiful woman. In another reality, Bruce might have been happy with her.

“You're a man after my own heart, Bruce,” Selina said. “Ouch, poor Harvey. That must have really stung his ego.”

“Among other things,” Bruce said. “He'd kill us both if he knew we were talking about that, by the way.”

“My lips are sealed,” Selina said. “No, wait, that's too easy. I'll promise to keep your secret if you give me a few details.”

“I couldn't do that to him,” Bruce said. “Poor Harvey, he's not a punchline. He was so outraged.”

Bruce tried and failed to stifle a laugh. Selina joined him. Her mirth was infectious; Bruce had never been so open with a mere friend as he was with her. She was easy to talk to, and her mischievous sense of humor broke through his seriousness effortlessly. It was good to have a friend in Gotham outside of his tumultuous relationships.

“He was very beautiful,” Bruce admitted. “He's always charming, but it's a politician's charm, there's always something false about it. Once he got over himself, it softened him. The charm became natural, unaffected. He was actually cute.”

“Mmm. Nice.” Selina picked up one of the cats that came and went from her apartment. She stroked its black fur. “How did you do it?”

“I only used my hand,” Bruce said. “The only person I ever used an object on was Floyd Lawton, and that was by request. I'm not out to _whip_ anyone.”

“Are you trying to say something?” Selina purred. “I lack your control, dear Bruce. I've never needed or wanted to set limits on myself.”

“I did have to handcuff him, though.”

“Harvey?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my!” Selina licked her lips. “I would give a lot of these treasures to have seen that. You really need to document your love life, Bruce. I bet you've never even sexted.”

“I like to keep my private life private, and as offline as possible,” Bruce said. “We may be friends, Selina, but I'm not unaware that a sex tape of Harvey and I would be worth as much as a few of these 'treasures' of yours.”

“Haven't you gotten cynical?” Selina said. “I'll have to settle for using my powerful imagination. Did he cry?”

Bruce nodded. Selina watched his expression with her keen green eyes.

“Do you feel bad about that?” she asked. “Does making a man cry make you feel guilty?”

“A little.”

“Yet you break bones without a qualm,” Selina laughed. “You are a funny man, Bruce.”

“It's different with someone you love,” Bruce said. “Even if it's for their own good, it isn't always easy to break them down. But I needed to get through to him. He was losing control rapidly. His behavior was dangerous to himself and others. He hurt me, Selina.”

“Oh?” Selina raised an eyebrow. “How in the world did he manage that?”

Bruce explained the event with the fear toxin. Even devil-may-care Selina found Harvey's actions to be inexcusable. _Thomas Blake betrayed her trust and hurt her,_ Bruce recalled. _She knows how it feels to be hurt by someone you're intimate with, even if she never cared about him. The violation of it is something she understands._

“What a nasty man that Dent can be,” Selina said. “I hope you made his ass glow in the dark.”

“Something like that.”

“Good,” Selina said. “Hm. You should be careful with him, Bruce. He might be tame now, but if he's willing to attack you, he might do it again.”

“He didn't do it out of malice. He was desperate.”

“That's even worse,” Selina said. “Imagine what he would be capable of doing if he ever did become malicious.”

“I can handle Harvey.”

“I hope so,” Selina said. “You're incredibly strong, Bruce, but you're not invulnerable. Underneath your special suit and underneath your dominance, you're still a mortal man. And you're young, in a way. I think that a part of the boy that lost his parents is still in there. The man you became knows the way the world works, but that boy still clings to his parents' ideals. That's your greatest weakness, Bruce.”

“Idealism?”

“Yes,” Selina said sadly. “You wouldn't be who you are without it, but you should guard that side more closely. Otherwise, it will hurt that much more when you're betrayed and disappointed.”

“I have to have faith in people,” Bruce said. “I have to believe they can be better. If I didn't believe that, what would I be fighting for?”

“Yourself,” Selina reasoned. “Wouldn't that be enough? To fight for yourself, and to avenge your parents?”

“It's too bleak,” Bruce said. “I don't need to fight for myself. As Harvey so often points out, I have everything that I need in life. It would be a petty thing to fight others just to satisfy my personal darkness. As for vengeance, if I went out every night thinking only of my parents' murders, I would cross a line that I never want to cross. I can't become a monster, Selina.”

“I see.” Selina chewed it over. “Well, don't become a martyr, either, Bruce.”

“I don't intend to.”

“I worry about you, for some reason,” Selina said. “I sometimes think this is what it would have been like to have a brother. It might be better that we haven't had sex. I haven't been very optimistic about dating since that bastard Blake.”

“Not every man you meet will turn out to be a murderous psychopath.”

“In Gotham City? I don't like the odds,” Selina said. “I don't know how you deal with your men, Bruce. You have a taste for such problematic guys that I wonder if you're not a little masochistic yourself. The only normal one was Bobby.”

“He's part of an underground criminal organization run by the Penguin now.”

“Oh dear.” Selina laughed incredulously. “You really know how to pick them, Bruce.”

“I know.”

They chatted for a while longer, and Bruce left. He hoped that he wasn't being too open with Selina. She was a criminal, after all. What would he do if she got caught up in something that Batman was obliged to stop? She knew him intimately, and that would be a problem. He hoped that it never came to that. Despite her thievery, he knew that she was a good person. She would never admit it, not even to herself, but he saw it. He only hoped that goodness would never be consumed by the city that fed on hopes and dreams.

* * *

When Bruce returned to his suite at the Gotham Regal, he saw Harvey's shoes by the door. He found him in the bedroom, sitting by a chair next to the open window. A cigarette butt trailed smoke from the ashtray. He was speaking in a low voice.

“—just sayin' that it'd be good.” His tone changed. “No, no, I have to save it for the trial. Why, though? I mean, what's the fuckin' point? It's important, that's what. I have to wait for the trial, the trial.”

Bruce expected to see a phone in his hand as he approached, but there was only the silver dollar. His heart sunk. He put a hand on Harvey's shoulder. Harvey jumped and twisted around to him.

“Jesus, Bruce, don't sneak up on me like that,” he gasped. “You're gonna give me a heart attack.”

“I'm sorry,” Bruce said. “Harvey, who were you talking to?”

“Oh, no one, just myself.”

“It sounded like you were arguing.”

“It's nothing, Bruce. Nothing.”

Bruce sat down on the second chair by the window. Harvey turned his face away from him.

“Harvey, are you hearing his voice again?” Bruce asked. “Your father?”

“Sounds less like him these days,” Harvey admitted. “It keeps sounding more and more like me.”

“Harvey, you need to take your medication,” Bruce said gently. “It's nothing to be ashamed of. Millions of people live with mental illness.”

“Well, I ain't millions of people!” Harvey snarled. “My old man said he heard voices, the system said he was crazy, but those were just excuses! He knew what he was doing, he always knew! He wasn't crazy, and I'm not crazy, either!”

Harvey had gotten out of his chair and started pacing. Bruce stood and caught him by the shoulders. Harvey looked up at him warily. Bruce really did not know what to say to him. They had had this argument a hundred times by now, but it always ended the same way: Harvey would not admit to having a mental disorder. Bruce felt helpless, watching the pressure of the upcoming trial deteriorate his lover's mental state. Instead of arguing or scolding, he kissed Harvey deeply. Then, he held him tightly in his arms.

“It's all right, Harvey.” He caressed the man's back. “It's all right.”

Harvey hugged him back, burying his face in Bruce's shoulder. They stood that way for some time, Bruce kissing him and stroking his hair and skin. Harvey was dry-eyed when they pulled apart, and his anger had faded.

“I'll be fine, Bruce,” he said. “I just have to make it through Maroni's trial. When that's done, maybe I'll take some time off. We can go somewhere, fool around. Maybe you can show me the perks of being with a Wayne, right?”

“I'd love to.”

“Who would have thought?” Harvey laughed. “Me, livin' the high life with Bruce Wayne! Ironic, isn't it? But why not? Why the hell not?”

“You deserve to have something good in your life,” Bruce said. “Hey, why don't I show you a little of that tonight? We'll watch the fireworks.”

“I don't know if I have the time,” Harvey said. “Why don't we flip the coin on it?”

“No, let's not,” Bruce said sternly. “Leave that damn thing in your pocket, Harvey. No arguing. I'm taking you to see the fireworks tonight, and that's that.”

Bruce gave him an affectionate swat on the bottom and went to make a call to arrange things. Harvey stayed behind, wondering if he should be offended or not. He was too tired to argue, and he had to admit that he could use a distraction.

“Why not?”

The answer to that question rose in his mind. He clutched his head and screwed his eyes shut. The effort to silence the mental voice made his head pound. Wearily, he went to find Bruce. Bruce was sitting on the living room sofa, and had just hung up the call. Harvey threw himself onto the sofa, resting his head on Bruce's lap. Bruce ran his hands through Harvey's silky dark hair.

“My head's killing me,” Harvey said. “Feels like it's gonna split in two. I've been working too hard on the case against Maroni. Then that Catman thing woke me up so damn early.”

Bruce rubbed Harvey's temples and the center of his forehead. He guided Harvey's breathing until the tension eased. Bruce had picked up many techniques to combat pain, stress, and fatigue overseas. Harvey had laughed them off as 'bullshit', but when he gave in and tried them, they actually worked.

“Get some sleep for now, Harvey,” Bruce told him. “Shh. Don't argue. Just rest. That's it, close your eyes. Just rest now, Harvey.”

Harvey could not open his eyelids again. Bruce's voice went on soothing him, and the voice in the back of his mind was silenced. His frown relaxed, vanished. He wished that he could stay here being taken care of by Bruce forever. They had their differences, but Bruce always knew how to calm him. _For a man whose history is so dark, he sure is good at fighting away demons,_ Harvey thought as he drifted to sleep. _He's stronger than me in that way. He's stronger than me in a lot of ways. But it's not so bad, being with someone stronger. It's a bitter pill to swallow, admitting Bruce Wayne of the one percent is tougher than I am, but that's not his fault. He can't help who he was born. It's amazing that he'd even look twice at someone like me, let alone love me in that naive, hopeful way of his. I'm lucky to have him. I just have to remember that. I'm … lucky …_

* * *

Harvey Dent felt a little too 'lucky' that night. Bruce woke him up and insisted that he wear a suit Bruce had bought for him. It was far too expensive, but Harvey humored his wealthy lover by wearing it. _Did he measure me while I was asleep? Fits like a goddamn glove,_ Harvey thought. He was partly appreciative, and partly annoyed. _Is he going to start dressing me up now? I'm not some damn prostitute. I don't need him to buy me anything._

_No, no, that's not fair. He doesn't mean it as an insult. He's trying to cheer me up. He doesn't know how to deal with what I'm going through. If he's even spending money on me, he must be pretty desperate. He knows I don't want anything from him._

Bruce had been worried about the gift, in truth. He was grateful when Harvey accepted it. He knew the man's pride was sensitive to what he saw as financial patronization. But Harvey dressed and said nothing about the matter. Bruce's analytical mind was able to deduce Harvey's measurements from his tactile familiarity with his body, and his private tailor had done an excellent job. The deep, inky blue brought out Harvey's eyes. The rest had smoothed the lines of worry and exhaustion from his face. He looked like the Apollo the presses had named him.

“I hope we're not going anywhere crowded,” Harvey said in the car. “The press has been sniffing around our friendship ever since Gilda died. I don't need any personal rumors on top of all the professional crap I have to deal with.”

“You know I hate publicity just as much as you do,” Bruce said. “Relax, Harvey. We're going to have the utmost privacy tonight.”

“Guess money really can buy happiness.”

“Don't start.”

“I'm just saying.”

Harvey was peering out the window, trying to figure out their destination from their route. Bruce had expected this. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a black silk blindfold. He silently moved closer to Harvey and tied it around his eyes.

“What the hell?” Harvey asked flatly. “You're kidding me, right?”

“I want to surprise you.”

“You're a sick freak.”

There was no objection in his tone. Bruce kissed him and put an arm around his shoulders. Harvey fingered the blindfold, but ultimately left it on. _Why not? If he wants to take charge, let him. It's kind of sexy, if I'm being totally honest._

Between the darkness of being blindfolded and the gentle motion of the car, Harvey soon grew drowsy. He dozed on Bruce's shoulder. There was never enough time to sleep, now that Maroni's trial was so close. It would be nice to have more moments like this: thoughtless, shameless, guiltless, peaceful. _If I had Bruce's money, this is_ _ **all**_ _I would do,_ he thought. _He must have a little bit of masochism in him if he's attracted to me and keeps nosing around the GCPD. Or maybe that's part of his control freak syndrome. Who knows? I don't think I'll ever really understand everything that makes Bruce Wayne tick._

The car stopped. Harvey sat up with a yawn. He went to untie the blindfold, but Bruce told him to keep it on. He was led out of the car. The summer air had cooled with the evening, and a faint breeze ruffled his hair. Bruce's hands were on his shoulders to guide him, and his lips pressed to his cheek lovingly. Harvey awkwardly let himself be brought across pavement, and then up something that felt like a ramp. They went high up. Harvey could not guess where they were going. Finally, Bruce removed the blindfold. Harvey looked around anxiously. He was shocked to find himself at the top of a boarding ramp below the Wayne Industries blimp. The massive airship blotted out the lights of the cityscape surrounding them.

“This thing usually just flies around on holidays with WayneTech ads scrolling on that LCD panel on its side,” Bruce explained. “But it has a small viewing chamber outside the cockpit. And the cockpit is soundproof. You won't get a better view of the fireworks anywhere else in Gotham City.”

Harvey was speechless. Bruce guided him into the passenger car. It was small, but comfortable. A table, two chairs, and a lounge sofa were screwed to the floor. There was a minibar, as well. Harvey sat down in one of the chairs, not quite knowing what to say. For a kid that had grown up in the slums, it was too surreal to easily process. Bruce eyed him worriedly, pouring them both glasses of champagne. Harvey downed his in one go thoughtlessly.

The blimp took to the air before long. Harvey watched as Gotham City shrank away. Soon, it resembled a scale model of itself. He had never seen the city from this height before. It was amazing to think of how small it could look, swallowed up by the world the same way it swallowed up its citizens. Harvey had never even been on an airplane. His entire life was down there, one more cell in the membrane of that dark city.

“Why am I here, Bruce?”

Bruce was unnerved by the small, soft whisper. He had never seen Harvey so meek, not even after being spanked. He wondered if he had made a mistake somehow. Was Harvey offended? Why would he be?

“You have all of this,” Harvey went on. “I mean, I know I'm good-looking, the press won't let me forget it, but I'm all screwed up. You could have anyone—literally, anyone. Why me?”

“Because I love you, Harvey.”

Harvey's eyes widened. Bruce said the words so naturally that he could never accuse him of lying. Harvey looked at the younger man, into the depths of his light blue eyes. Bruce was worried for him, and he had no idea why Harvey would think he wasn't good enough for him. Was that what it was like, being rich? Bruce could not even comprehend the gulfs between them? _Naive,_ Harvey thought, his heart twisting. _He's a hard man, but he's still young. He's still so naive. That's why I love being with him. He makes everything simple, black and white. Love is love, period. Evil is evil, period. Good is rewarded, bad is punished. In a way, he's not that different from the Batman, and I like Batman, too. I want things to be that simple. I wish everything was black and white._

“I was attracted to you first,” Bruce tried to explain. “I'll admit that. Remember when we met at the Ball in Blue? I thought you were beautiful—and then I got a taste of your infamous temper.”

“Ha, I was pretty hard on you, huh?”

“I thought it was attractive.”

“Really?”

“You were honest,” Bruce said. “Even Gordon wasn't prepared for you to be _that_ honest. I had never met a politician in Gotham that would dare be rude to me, let alone try to tear me to shreds. I don't agree with the way you stereotyped me, but I know firsthand that the rich deserve to be met with skepticism. You were rough around the edges, but I liked your spirit. I still do.”

“I'm not looking for flattery.”

“I'm not flattering you. You're the one that asked why you're here,” Bruce said. “I'm telling you. Harvey, you're an infuriating, bullheaded, sometimes reckless man. You can be as ruthless as you are moral, and you can be duplicitous at times. On a good day, you have a tendency to be an impatient, arrogant, cynical brat.”

“Hey, wait a minute.”

“But I love you,” Bruce said. “I don't love you in spite of all those things, but because of them. To me, all of it is a part of you, and I love the whole. You're just Harvey Dent, and I love you. I can't explain it any better than that.”

“Jesus.”

Harvey went to grab the bottle of champagne. Bruce put a hand over his. Their eyes met over the table.

“Don't run away from it,” Bruce said. “You deserve to be loved, Harvey.”

Harvey felt like running, raging, crying. He did not know how to feel. Bruce was painfully earnest. He wished that he could rely on an inkling of falsity to justify his own cynicism, but there was none. Bruce's hand smoothed over his own, up to his wrist. There were a million reasons not to love Bruce, but they all withered in his mind. Harvey loved him fiercely, and he hated himself for it.

The sound of fireworks interrupted the moment. Harvey breathed a shaky sigh of relief, slipping his hand out of Bruce's grasp. They turned to the window. Above Gotham City, a dazzling display of pyrotechnics lit up the night sky. Harvey watched the fireworks. Bruce watched Harvey, the lights painting his profile blue, green, purple.

“Independence Day, huh?” Harvey murmured. “I wish I could just be free of it all, Bruce. Free of my father, free of the city, free of myself. Wouldn't that be great?”

“You can be, Harvey,” Bruce said. “I'm telling you, you can.”

“Can I?”

Harvey smiled distantly, standing. He finished whatever was left in the champagne bottle and headed for the bar. Bruce turned his back on the fireworks to follow him.

“Yes,” he said. “I promise, you can be free.”

Harvey stared at the bottles, but he did not truly feel like drinking. The fireworks burst into the riotous final display, and they turned back to the windows. The passenger car had no music playing. There was only the muffled sound of the fireworks. Harvey recalled many past Independence Days. In a rare good mood, his father had once taken him to see the fireworks from the sweaty, loud docks. Another time, he had been nursing bruises in bed all alone. The year his father died, he had sat drinking and smoking himself sick while watching the show on TV. In college, he had drank beer and joined some kids on the filthy beach to watch them. The first year of marriage, he and Gilda had driven out early to stake their claim on a spot on the bridge.

“No, I won't ever be free,” Harvey said. “Can you ever be free of what happened to your parents?”

He hated to bring it up, but he knew it was the truth. Bruce's eyes widened, then he turned his face. Harvey could see that he had conceded the point. He felt like an ass. He put an arm around Bruce's waist, leaned his head on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I'm always prosecuting everyone.”

“You're just honest,” Bruce said. “And you're right. No one is ever truly free. But we have the independence to choose how our ties shape us, right? At least there's that.”

It was a wise thing for such a young man to say. Harvey smiled.

“Yeah, you're right,” he said.

Something dark stirred in the back of Harvey's mind.

“Except when luck fucks us over completely,” he added.

Bruce looked down at him, sensing the conflict. He kissed him determinedly. Harvey's expression softened again as he returned the kiss. The passenger car was dim now that the fireworks had ended. They fell onto the sofa. They made love in the gondola high above the city. It was slow, breathless, scorching. Harvey gave himself to Bruce with all the need that he usually hid. Bruce met his wants, urged his desires out until there was nothing left.

On the floor in a tangle, Harvey turned over and threw an arm around Bruce. Though it was hot from lack of temperature control in the gondola, he was trembling. Bruce kissed and stroked and murmured until he was still.

“I love you,” Harvey said thickly. “God, Bruce, to hell with all of the rest of it. I fucking love you.”

“I—”

“No, you've said it more than enough times,” Harvey laughed. “I've hardly let myself say it at all. But I'm saying it now. I love you, Bruce Wayne. The only other person I ever loved this much was my wife. I'd marry you, if I could.”

“So would I.” Bruce laughed. “Maybe we should just come out. Shock the world. Let them talk. Be happy together.”

“I wish,” Harvey said. “But I would be done in court. I had to fight like hell to get respect just because of my age and my face. It just wouldn't work. I couldn't give scum like Maroni more reasons to insult me. You, me, this, it means too much to me to let it be dirtied and ruined by the fucking world. Let's just keep it like this, all right? Just between us. Our own private whatever.”

“It's probably best that way,” Bruce said, thinking of Batman.

Bruce got up and fetched another bottle of champagne. He refilled their neglected glasses. Harvey almost downed his, but Bruce gave him a look. He raised his glass.

“Then, here's to our own private whatever.”

“Hell, yes.”

Outside, the smoke had cleared, revealing the white moon and stars. Gotham City felt like it was a million miles away, but its pulse throbbed ever on. Its rusty machinery turned, its citizens battled the sticky heat, and the sky was forgotten again.

* * *

That night, the coroner in charge of Alberto Falcone's autopsy was found murdered by Holiday. The morgue had been broken into. They never did find Alberto's body.


	6. Roman Holiday: The Vulcanalia

[August 23, 2015]

Bruce Wayne woke up before Harvey Dent on the airless summer morning. He sat up in bed, alternatively watching the sun rise on the muggy day and his lover sleeping peacefully. Today should be the dawn of a new era in Gotham City, a dawning of justice. The trial Salvatore Maroni began today.

Bruce knew that he should be optimistic, but he could not shake his morose mood. He watched Harvey sleep, and his heart ached. The city outside only heralded the promise of the young, handsome, heroic District Attorney, but Bruce knew the price Harvey paid to battle injustice. The strain of preparing for the trial of the man that had ordered his wife killed had warped his mind. Bruce had tried his best to help Harvey fight his demons, but he knew they still tormented him. He did not want to think of what the trial would do to him. He ran a hand through Harvey's soft dark brown hair, over his beautiful face, and tried to will him to remain anchored to their love.

 _I wish that I could keep him here by my side forever,_ Bruce thought. He slid back down in bed and pulled Harvey onto his chest. Harvey murmured something and put an arm over him. _To hell with Batman, with the District Attorney, with justice, with Gotham, to hell with all of it. There's still a selfish part of me that would trade it all if I could keep him safe in my arms forever._

The morning hours slipped away too quickly, and Harvey woke up. Bruce expected him to be all nerves and moodiness, but he was oddly calm. He returned Bruce's morning kiss, showered, groomed, and sat for breakfast. He was immaculate, steely, _sure_. Bruce admired the way Harvey could swallow down all his angst when he needed to function, but he worried about the toll it would take on him later. Even Harvey's hale appetite had lessened; he drank more coffee than ate food.

“Are you sure that you don't want to take your medication?” Bruce asked gently. “It might help.”

“No,” Harvey said certainly. “I know you're just worried, Bruce, and I appreciate it. But I need to focus. I need to be sharp. This is how I got through school, through college. I was always at my best when I was … hungry.”

“Hungry?”

“Starved,” Harvey said. “Starved for food, for love, for attention, for anything. For everything. I do best when I'm alone and starving. Like some kind of fucking animal.”

Harvey shut his eyes, exhaled, and held a hand tightly over his brow. He seemed to suffer an internal struggle. When he looked at Bruce again, he was wearing his confident politician's smile. Bruce's bad feeling deepened.

“I have to do my best,” Harvey said. “I'm sorry if I'm a little distant, Bruce. I can't help it. This is always the way I operate. You've never seen me in the middle of a really big court case, and this is the biggest one of my life.”

“I understand, Harvey.”

“Thanks, Bruce.”

* * *

Renee Montoya had a bad feeling. The young officer had not been with the GCPD long, but in her service, she had witnessed the bulk of the Holiday killer's spree. The young woman had grown up with a serious, practical view of policing: crime was rampant in Gotham, and those who were able should try to clean it up. She had graduated at the top of her class from the Gotham City Police Academy, and was eager to join the force. The reality of the force shocked her. She had been used to the sloppy, cruel, blindly brutal ways of the street, and had never imagined the GCPD operated in the same manner. She had made detective early, and was paired with Harvey Bullock. The man's lackadaisical attitude towards his job and suspected corruption nauseated her. It was all she could do to not file a sexual harassment claim against him (which would be laughed out of the department, she knew).

Renee and several officers were escorting Sal Maroni to court today. Her detective's instincts were alight with suspicion, but she could not tell why. She hated it when her gut out-paced her brain, it made her wish she could process data the way machines did. Maroni laughed and joked with the officers, a couple of whom were naive or corrupt enough to play along with his banter. The more he talked, the more a violent cough interrupted Maroni's words. Was he sick? Renee honestly did not care, but she thought it was peculiar that he was in such high spirits if he was going to the trial for his life while suffering an illness. His mood, it just wasn't right.

Renee dared to express her concerns to her partner Harvey Bullock outside of the courthouse. He laughed at her, spewing doughnut crumbs that hit her cheek.

“Don't worry about it, sweetheart,” he said. “Guys like that put on a brave face all the time. Aw, don't look so upset. Hey, I'll take you to dinner and explain all about it.”

Renee ignored him. She followed the officers escorting Maroni into the courthouse. In a secured room, Maroni's handcuffs were removed for the trial. He straightened his tie, then doubled over coughing. He said something to a clerk, they nodded and left. Renee watched him as carefully as possible, but he never made a single suspicious move.

A man entered the room. Renee recognized him as the acting Assistant District Attorney, Vernon Wells. She missed the previous ADA, Luis Castell. The two had gone for drinks one time as friends, and had bonded over their parents' immigration stories (Luis' family was from Santa Prisca, hers was from the Dominican Republic). Luis had been classy, well-dressed, and brilliant. His sudden disappearance in February had alarmed her. On her own time, she had looked into his life, and found out that his parents had gone missing before he did. She had tried to open Missing Persons cases for the Castell family, but she was not related to them, they were adults, and the GCPD had 'better things to do'. The unsolved mystery depressed her.

ADA Wells explained that he had brought medicine for Sal Maroni. Maroni was given the bottle of cough syrup to sip during the trial. Wells assured them that security had thoroughly checked it. Maroni held fast to the bottle, though he said he didn't want to rely on it unless he really needed it. No one questioned him. Everything that went into the courtroom was scanned by security; if they said it was all right, it was all right.

 _So why don't I feel all right?_ Renee wondered. _Something about all of this just feels wrong. Bullock says I'm paranoid. Maybe I am. It's hard to tell in this goddamn city sometimes._

* * *

Bruce wished that he could have kissed Harvey before the trial. Harvey had been distant on the way to the courthouse, constantly on his phone or tablet. He only had the patience for a quick kiss before they exited the car. Walking a distance apart, they had gone through the crucible of the media, and reached the courthouse. Bruce hated to have to restrain his love for Harvey in public. He was used to controlling his secrets when playing the role of 'Bruce Wayne', but today it was difficult. Harvey acted his part perfectly, but Bruce still wanted to hug him, hold him, kiss him good luck. All he could do was give him a friendly clap on the shoulder and wish him well.

Bruce sat on the benches in the back of the courtroom reserved for the public. The room smelled of wood polish and the mingling scents of humanity. Most of the public seats were occupied by journalists of all kinds, from fledgling bloggers to the glossy personas working for the mainstream media. Their hunger for anything to disrupt the process of justice made Bruce queasy. All anyone should hope for was a neat, boring trial that proved what everyone in the room knew: Sal Maroni was a criminal of the worst stripe, and needed to be locked up for life.

Harvey Dent's opening arguments were precise and passionate. He was a marvel in the courtroom. _Is this how different I am when I'm Batman instead of Bruce Wayne?_ Bruce wondered. _Is this what it looks like? No wonder Bobby was so shaken._

Throughout the opening statements, Maroni's cough grew worse. When he was called to the stand, he was clutching a bottle of cough syrup. Harvey looked at him coldly, his mouth twitching with the urge to sneer. _Keep it together, Harvey,_ Bruce thought. _Don't let him bring out that dark side of yours._

It happened in the space between heartbeats. Harvey had presented evidence and made an inquiry. Maroni doubled over in a coughing fit. Harvey again asked Maroni to answer his question. The press murmured, annoyed. Bruce's instincts were running wild inside him, but he could not explain why.

“ _Will you_ please answer the question?” a frustrated Harvey Dent asked, storming up to the witness stand. He dropped his voice to a whisper no one else could hear. “Answer. The. Question. Sal.”

“Yeah.” Sal coughed. “I got your answer. Right … HERE!”

Sal had unscrewed the top of the cough syrup. He lifted it as if he were going to take a sip. Then, he sloshed the liquid inside straight into Harvey's face. Harvey's eyes widened and shock overtook his expression for a split second. Then, the liquid hit his skin. Fire lit through his skin and muscle and nerves. For a moment, he only stumbled backwards, hands lifted, shaking, not daring to touch his burning face. Then, he screamed.

“AAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!”

Bruce leapt to his feet. For the first time since the night of his parents' murder, he was shocked into inaction. He froze. Every instinct, every analysis, every piece of training fled his mind. Cold terror seized him. The scream was more animal than human, the most primal expression of suffering he had ever heard. The purity of the pain burst forth in that awful, high-pitched scream, echoing around the courtroom.

There was a moment when the entire courtroom went unnaturally still. Time seemed to slow. Only Harvey was moving, tripping backwards and trying to touch his face. Then, the courtroom exploded into action. Shots went off. Cameras went off. Some people shouted, others fled, still more encroached upon the scene like moths to flame.

Bruce forced himself back to reality. He barged his way through the crowd and grabbed Harvey. Harvey writhed violently and fell to the floor. Bruce knelt beside him. His brain and heart throbbed numbly. As if it was the apathetic system Batman used, Bruce's brain took in the details. Harvey's skin was sizzling off of one side of his face. Where his hand instinctively went to touch it, the skin crumbled and burned. _Acid, some kind of acid,_ Bruce's methodical mind informed him. _There was acid in the medicine bottle. Harvey was attacked by acid. His face is melting off. The pain is excruciating. It's eating through everything._

Bruce shook violently, trying to hold Harvey in his arms. Harvey was still screaming. His body jerked unnaturally. He could hardly breathe for his cries, choked between yells. Bruce watched the lips he had kissed so many times scorch and discolor. He watched the skin he so often caressed shrivel away.

“Shh, Harvey, shhh,” he murmured distantly. “It's … I'll … I'll help you. I'll help you.”

Bruce's life as Batman had made him wont to be prepared for any situation. He took one of the syringes filled with a powerful sedative from his jacket pocket. As Harvey had done with the fear toxin months ago, Bruce plunged the syringe into his neck. Harvey jerked, and then began to still. His screams petered out to whimpers.

“I'll help you,” Bruce said softly. “I'll save you. I'll save you. I'll save you, Harvey.”

* * *

Bruce spent the rest of the day in Gotham General Hospital. He vaguely remembered coming to see his father there a few times. Thomas Wayne had never been able to pay him much attention when he was there. He had always had his eyes glued to his equipment and records, planning his next surgery. Alfred had eventually given up on introducing Bruce to the world of surgery.

Jim Gordon was furious. He paced and smoked and cursed. Bruce did not hear a word he said. He stood like a statue through it all. He only came back to reality when the doctors finally came to explain Harvey's condition. Half of Harvey's face had been totally destroyed by the acid, which was of a variety they had never seen before. It had eaten through the epidermis, soft tissue, and some of the muscle of his face. He was horribly disfigured—but he would live.

Bruce breathed a sigh of relief. There was always hope if someone lived. Harvey was not lost yet. He had not lost Harvey yet. He could still save him.

Bruce threw his money around without a care. He got Harvey a private room, and paid bribes to be let in to see him. He drew a chair up beside Harvey's hospital bed and sat staring at his lover for many hours in total stillness. Half of Harvey's face was covered with layers of protective chemicals, plastics, and bandages. The other half frowned deeply in sleep. His mouth was covered with an oxygen mask, and tubes and wires ran up and down his body.

 _I just held that body in my arms this morning,_ Bruce thought. _I kissed those lips, I held that face. He was fine. He was just fine. He's Harvey, just … Harvey Dent. **My** Harvey Dent. Beautiful, stubborn, moody, passionate Harvey. My Harvey, my … my Harvey Dent._

Bruce had taken Harvey's undamaged right hand into his own at some point. He gripped it tightly, smoothed his fingers over it, and grasped it again. He had lost track of time since the attack. People went in, went out. He thought that Gordon and Alfred had tried to speak to him, but he was not sure. If they had, he had not responded. He sat there, and could think of nothing but the man he loved.

Without any warning or explanation, Bruce bowed his head over Harvey's hand and cried. He made little sound, but cried bitterly for him—for them. The tears seemed endless. As if he had a sense, Alfred appeared at his side. He gripped Bruce's shoulder tightly.

“He was right there in front of me, Alfred,” Bruce said. “He was _right there_. If I had been Batman, I could have thrown something, used the grappling hook—I could have _done something_!”

“No, sir, that's not true,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce, there was no way that anyone could have seen it coming. Mr. Gordon showed me the video. I—I know how horrible it was. But please, sir, you cannot blame yourself. It happened too quickly, and there was no warning. You could not have done anything.”

“Like my parents,” Bruce said dully. “You said the same thing about my parents.”

Bruce rose to his feet. He stormed around the hospital room, eyes wild.

“But I _am not_ a child anymore, Alfred,” he seethed. “I'm a man! I'm the most powerful man in the goddamn city, if it comes to that.”

“Please, sir, lower your voice,” Alfred begged. “This is not the place to discuss such matters. Come home, or to your suite at the hotel. You need food, you need rest.”

“No! No, I … I need to be here.”

Bruce controlled himself with effort. He returned to his chair and took Harvey's hand into his own again.

“I need to be here, with Harvey,” he said. “I … I failed him, Alfred. This is the least that I can do.”

“Sir—”

“No, no excuses,” Bruce said. “No rationalizations. What the hell is the point of Batman if he can't protect the ones he loves the most?”

Bruce had never spoken of Batman in the third person before, unless it was with a sense of wry humor. Alfred wondered if he had given up on his alternative persona. A small part of him was relieved at the thought. _But what would become of Master Bruce without Batman?_ Alfred wondered.

“That is why I came in here, sir,” Alfred said. “I hate to give you more bad news, but—”

“What?”

“Carla Viti, the sister of Carmine Falcone, has been murdered,” Alfred said. “Commissioner Gordon believes that it was the work of the Holiday killer. Today is the date of an old Roman holiday, the Vulcanalia.”

“The time in ancient Rome when the crops were most likely to burn,” Bruce reflected. “Sacrifices were thrown into bonfires to take the place of humans. Humans were never meant to burn.”

“Sir?”

“I don't care,” Bruce said. “I don't care about Carla Viti or Falcone or Holiday. I need to be with Harvey now.”

Alfred had always worried about Bruce's deep concern for the city's well-being, yet this despondency disturbed him even more. It reminded him of Bruce's darkest phase, the rebellion against life that had consumed him after his parents had died. Bruce had not rebelled with loud music and the usual vices of sex, drugs, and alcohol. He had soaked himself in death, the mythology and ideology of it. Mixed with his morbidity was a fixation with vigilantism, a more permanent kind than Batman practiced.

 _The very first time I felt forced to discipline him was when I found a notebook with a detailed and intricate plot to exact permanent justice upon a school bully,_ Alfred remembered. _I tried to shame him with words, but he was just this callous. He said that if he could pick off one of the 'bad guys', that he would, and why not? The coldness actually frightened me. God, he was a child, but he frightened me. Even during the war, I only saw that kind of blunt murderous intent a few times. To see it in a child, and a child I loved so dearly … Thankfully, the shock of taking a spanking from me broke him out of it. I think it was only a dark juvenile fancy. But if he's gone back to that place now, in the prime of adulthood, I could never stop him … I don't think **anyone** could … _

“Master Bruce?”

“Bring me something to eat, I don't care what it is,” Bruce said distractedly. “I won't leave. I have to be here for him.”

“Very … well, sir.”

* * *

[August 24, 2015]

Bruce fell asleep in the chair beside Harvey's bed. When he awoke the next morning, he only left to use the bathroom. Pitch black stubble lined his face, but he did not bother to shave. He returned to the chair and took Harvey's hand in his own again. He did not know or care what time it was.

At long last, Harvey coughed and sputtered and groaned his way back to consciousness. Bruce fetched the doctors and waited anxiously. The first definite expression that issued from Harvey's mouth was a broken, scratchy cry of pain. He was issued more morphine, and passed out again. Bruce returned to his station next to the hospital bed.

“Bruce?”

Bruce had been dozing, but the sound of Harvey's voice woke him up instantly. He squeezed Harvey's hand tighter, and stood over him. Harvey's one visible eye was dazed. It took him a while to look up and focus on Bruce.

“I'm right here, Harvey,” Bruce said. “I'm here.”

“What happened?” Harvey asked. “The trial—did I win? Maroni?”

 _That's right, that's all he's cared about for the past few weeks,_ Bruce thought. It took him a moment to collect himself enough to speak.

“Don't worry about any of that right now, Harvey,” Bruce said. “Shhh. No, don't talk. I know it hurts.”

“No, I—I remember,” Harvey said dreamily. “Thought it was cough syrup. Threw it at me. My face—Oh, God, my face!”

The heart rate monitor's beeps became more rapid. Harvey tried to sit up. His hands, one bandaged from the acid damage, clawed at his facial coverings. Bruce restrained him until the doctors came in. They gave him a short exam and injected more painkillers and a sedative. Harvey's face was slack by the time he and Bruce were alone again.

“You'll be … You'll get through this, Harvey,” Bruce said. “I'll get the best plastic surgeons. You're alive, that's all that matters.”

“You think I care about my fucking face?” Harvey chuckled bitterly. “I don't care. Maroni's all that matters. Dumb bastard. They shot him, right? I mean, they had to. He's dead, right?”

Bruce was silent. Harvey's one inky blue eye became uncannily focused, despite the drugs. He managed to sit up in bed. The heart rate monitor's beeps sped up again.

“He's dead, _right_?” Harvey repeated. “Bruce, please. Please. Tell me.”

“He was shot three times, but he's alive,” Bruce admitted. “He's being treated in this very hospital.”

“Son-of-a-bitch!”

Bruce was shocked by Harvey's sudden burst of strength. He began trying to tear his IV lines out, and almost made it out of bed. Bruce wrestled him back down. Harvey burst into hysterical fury. He fought so much that he had to be sedated yet again, and restrained. The staff gave Bruce accusatory looks, but no one dared throw him out after the ridiculous bribes he had given out last night.

“I … I'll … kill 'im,” Harvey breathed. “Heh heh. Still … tyin' me up … Bruce? Won't … work for long. I'll kill Maroni, with my own … fucking … hands. System didn't work. Big … fucking surprise. Holiday's … right, always been … right. Shoulda … done it together … Gilda … woulda … helped you, Gilda … Shoulda … told me.”

“Harvey, rest,” Bruce hushed him. “Please, just rest now.”

“Ya want … plastic surgeons, huh?” Harvey chuckled. “Why, Bruce? Don't ya think it suits me? Now I'm … really … just another … two-faced politician.”

Bruce sank back into his chair, pale. Harvey had called himself that the night they had met. He had always persecuted himself more harshly than Bruce or the world ever could. He had never seen just how admirable he was. Would he ever be able to see it, when a part of him actually believed he deserved this tragedy?

Bruce kissed Harvey's unblemished right hand. He stroked his hair. Harvey's one visible eye began to dull with the fogginess of sleep.

“I'll fix you, Harvey,” Bruce said. “You're alive, that's all that matters. You're here, you're here with me, and I love you. I'll fix you.”

“Bruce, you … you can't save everyone. Even I … can't … save anyone.”

Harvey passed out. Bruce leaned over him, holding him in his arms. Tears fell from his eyes again. He hated to think it, but his parents' murder had been over with quickly. He had spent no time in the limbo between hope and despair. He did not know how to deal with the turmoil of Harvey's condition. There was absolutely nothing that he could do to help, no way of taking charge of the situation. He was helpless. After years of preparing to return to Gotham City fearlessly, he was lost to blind, dumb, powerless terror.

And Batman was the farthest thing from his mind.

* * *

[August 30, 2015]

The city began to grow restless after a week passed without any sign of the Batman. Bruce Wayne gave it no thought at all. He was at Harvey Dent's side 24/7, caring for him with more attention than the nurses did. Harvey had shut down after his initial outburst. Just as when his wife Gilda had been murdered, he went into a state of catatonia. No one dared tried to break him out of it. Bruce had him moved to the best private rooms on the upper floors of Gotham General. Harvey took no notice.

“I have consulted with the world's top surgeons,” Bruce said this morning. “The nerve damage won't ever be fully repaired, but they can reconstruct your face. You will have full muscle control again. It will take some time and therapy, but you'll be … You'll heal, Harvey.”

Bruce was feeding Harvey by hand this morning. He was docile enough to eat solid food, but had to be fed like an infant. Bruce did not mind. He had spent every minute of every hour caring for his lover since the attack, and was determined to continue until Harvey had healed. He could think of nothing else.

“Ain't—”

The sound of Harvey's voice made Bruce's heart skip a beat. He set the tray of food aside and stood over him. Sentience began to return to Harvey's visible eye. He licked his lips.

“Ain't gonna get better, Bruce,” he said hoarsely. “Ain't gonna heal.”

“Don't say that, Harvey.”

“No, Harvey's … not here,” the DA said faintly. “Bruce, I … ”

Bruce kissed him as best as he could with half of Harvey's face swathed in bandages. For a moment, he felt Harvey's love again in the returned kiss. There was a finality in it that made Bruce's stomach knot.

“Harvey did love you,” the man whispered. “I'm sorry … but … now there's … just … me.”

“Harvey, what—”

Bruce felt a tiny prick of pain in his neck. By the time he clapped his hand over it, the needle had been removed. He frowned in confusion at Harvey.

“No, not Harvey,” his lover said. “Two-Face.”

Bruce's vision whirled. He staggered, then collapsed on the floor. His body was rubbery and weak. Harvey climbed down from the hospital bed, tearing out his IV line. He bandaged the bleeding and removed the oxygen line and monitor cables. The dead monotone of a flat-line made Bruce's head buzz.

“Sorry to drug you—again.”

Harvey's voice was completely calm. He put on the robe that Bruce had brought him. There was no trace of pain or trauma in him. He knelt beside Bruce and stroked his face. After a moment, he kissed him. Bruce could not move enough to kiss him back.

“It's just a sedative, don't worry,” Harvey said. “Who knows? Maybe you'll see me sometime. I might even let you spank me. We can flip on it, once I get my coin back. Goodbye, Bruce.”

Bruce tried to protest, but his mouth did not work. Harvey kissed him again, sweetly, and then rose. He watched helplessly as he left the hospital room. A moment later, everything faded to black.


	7. Labor Day

[September 4, 2015]

Two-Face wavered on his feet outside the GCPD. He had gotten clothing and a bottle of alcohol from some vagrant that was easy to knock out. The bandages covering the left side of his face and his left hand were filthy with grime and blood. The solid weight of a pistol rested in his pocket. He took a swig of booze and glowered at the GCPD.

_After all the time Harvey wasted in there, I can't even go near the fucking place._

Two-Face spit, and then retreated down the alley from whence he had come. He was starving and cold and tired. Harvey would have gone running to his rich boyfriend Brucey Wayne in his plush hotel suite, but Two-Face wouldn't have it. He was done with Harvey's weaknesses and submission. He had been waiting for years to control the pathetically idealistic District Attorney, and now he had succeeded. Poor Harvey was hiding somewhere in the back of his mind, cowering like the coward he was, unable to touch the tender spots of his trauma. Good! Let him hide! Two-Face had everything under control.

At least … he had thought he did. The wail of sirens stopped at the end of the alley. He heard the scuffle of boots on pavement, the click of a cocked gun.

“Stop! Police!”

Great. Just what he needed. How the hell did they spot him? Were the GCPD just extra-paranoid after their precious White Knight had been taken down? Was Jim worried about him? Or did he just want to catch him?

“Too bad either way,” Two-Face muttered.

He crouched down very fast, and ran down the alley. Police were trained to shoot fixed targets, very few of them could track one that grew or shrank so quickly. He heard the guns go off, but nothing even grazed him. Once he had cleared the alley, he broke into a full-fledged sprint. He heard sirens wailing. Were the bandages making him easy to track? Was Harvey's old friend Batman lending the GCPD a hand with their surveillance?

_Fuck it. Doesn't matter._

Two-Face was at a loss when the next alley led to a dead end. He swore furiously and whipped around. The leftovers of sewer maintenance caught his eye on the street. His shoes pounded the pavement as he ran. He grabbed the crowbar abandoned by the “Do Not Cross” tape, pried open the manhole, and climbed down, wrestling the cover over the hole above. Daylight went black. Rank air entered his one exposed nostril. He snorted and went down.

 _Smells like the city down here,_ Two-Face thought when he came to the sewer passageway. _All the shit and blood and bile they try to flush away ends up right here. Most honest place in Gotham._

Two-Face laughed at that thought as he made his way through the sewer. The sound of traffic above was distorted and hushed, as if he were underwater. There was a sound of dripping water and scurrying rats in the distance. It was cooler than the baking streets above, at least.

Two-Face walked for what seemed like forever. He lost track of the time in the emptiness. An inkling of trepidation set his nerves on edge. He took out his father's—no, _his—_ silver dollar and ran it along his knuckles. The feel of the coin grounded him, comforted him. He could face any situation, so long as the coin told him that it had to be. Once you knew the kind of luck you had, you could cope with anything.

Two-Face stopped suddenly. Another scuffling had joined the sound of the rats' paws. He could have sworn he heard footsteps. He listened. Nothing. But when he resumed walking, so did the footsteps. Harvey would have died of fear, but Two-Face went on walking. He flipped the coin every now and then, and whistled a vague tune.

All at once, Two-Face whipped around. The other footsteps skidded to a halt.

“I know you're there!” he called into the darkness. “Come on, don't be shy.”

The shadows stirred, and coalesced into a figure. Even Two-Face took pause at the sight. The weak sunlight shining in through one of the sewer grates illuminated an enormous man, possibly nine feet in height. He wore raggedy clothing, and his skin was pale blue.

“So, it's true,” Two-Face remarked. “There really is a zombie livin' in the sewer. How 'bout that?”

“Solomon Grundy,” rasped the weird, hulking figure.

Two-Face cocked his head.

“Huh? Oh, yeah?” he asked. “Yeah, I—Harvey—we heard that sometime. How did it go?”

“Solomon Grundy.”

“Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday,” Two-Face recited. He flipped his coin and caught it. “Er—Christened on Tuesday. Married on Wednesday. Took ill on Thursday. Grew worse on Friday. Died on Saturday. Buried on Sunday. That was the end, of Solomon Grundy.”

“Solomon Grundy?”

The zombie or whatever he was came closer to Two-Face. He cocked his head, as if interested in his visitor. Two-Face stared up at him, wondering what horrible fate had brought him down here. The fear had gone. Harvey was the one that cared about his mortality; Two-Face didn't think about it much.

“Solomon … Grundy.”

Two-Face recited the nursery rhyme again, to the beat of the rise and fall of his coin as he tossed it. Solomon Grundy (might as well let that be his name) smiled. He nodded, and put a hand on Two-Face's shoulder. Saying his name again (was that all he could say?), he led Two-Face through the sewers. It was amazing the way he knew exactly where he was going. Two-Face might have wandered around the subterranean maze for months and still been lost. They came to an abandoned maintenance office. Upon entering the supervisor's room, Two-Face saw that it had been re-purposed into a bedroom. There was a huge stack of moldy blankets that must have served as Grundy's bed, and strange artifacts the whatever-he-was must have collected: ancient coins, a battered tin soldier, several plastic toys, random shoes, even a Revolution-era musket.

“Solomon Grundy.”

Grundy pointed to a pile of pillows and blankets. Two-Face sat on them. Grundy looked pleased. _Doesn't get the chance to entertain much, I bet,_ he thought. He reached into his pocket to make sure his pistol was ready. _Don't know if it'd ever work against this guy, though. One guy Harvey thought was delusional said he fired six shots into the zombie in the sewers and he still kept coming at him._

Grundy went into another room. He returned with a tin of sardines and a water bottle. Two-Face was wary, but both items were perfectly sealed. Hunger and thirst got the best of him. He devoured the meager meal within minutes. Grundy stood over him, watching. He seemed pleased.

“Thank you,” Harvey said.

“Solomon Grundy.”

Harvey clutched his head, pain shooting through it. The food and water had wrenched him back to reality. Two-Face jeered in the back of his mind, but he was in control for the moment. Fear, pain, and shock burned through him like a bullet. He doubled over his knees, sobbing and gasping. What had he done? What had _they_ done, he and Two-Face? He knew how he had retrieved the coin. He knew what he had done to escape the hospital. He shook and cried out and pounded his aching head.

“Solomon Grundy.”

Grundy knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. His simple mind could not fathom the small creature, but he was glad that the thing had not run from him or attacked him. The thing was shaking and seemed to be in pain. Grundy kept a hand on it, hoping it would not turn cold and stop moving the way so many things down here did.

* * *

“Sir, please, you must eat.”

“Not now, Alfred.”

Bruce Wayne had been in a strange state since Harvey Dent sedated him before escaping from Gotham General Hospital. He would not discuss his lover at all, but he obsessively tracked his movements. After Harvey Dent had drugged Bruce, he had gotten his hands on a scalpel somehow. He sought out Maroni, and had flown into a rage upon discovering Maroni had been transferred to a prison hospital. After that, he broke into the storage room where patients' belongings were kept. He left his clothes and wallet, taking only the silver dollar his abusive father had left to him. During all this, he killed anyone that got in his way. Five people had died. Since then, he had only been spotted sporadically around the city, though it was becoming clear he was staking out the GCPD.

“Sir—”

“I have to find him,” Bruce said. “He was just spotted near the GCPD again, but he took off. Wherever he went must have been in a CCTV blind spot. I need to go back to the GCPD. I never should have left. If I just stay there, he'll show up again. He has to. I know what he wants. He wants to kill Sal Maroni. If I wait there, I'll catch him.”

“And then what, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked. “Forgive me for saying so, but the man is deranged and out of all control.”

“I will get him all the help that he needs,” Bruce said. “Like Harvey always said, I'm rich enough to do whatever I want.”

Alfred said nothing. Bruce had been quoting the bitter District Attorney ever since his attack. _Mr. Dent's fatalism proved to have a point,_ Alfred thought. _I hope Master Bruce doesn't let it consume him, though. He's fought so hard to come this far. I don't know what I would do if I had to watch him lose all of it._

“I _**will**_ save him, Alfred,” Bruce said. “I have to. I … I can't lose him. I love him, more than I've loved anyone in my entire life. He's fought harder than Batman has, because he's fought in the light of day. He lost his first love, his wife, because of that bravery. What is Batman if he can't even protect one single man who deserves it? What am I, if I can't protect the man that I love? What are we? What is it all for?”

Bruce slammed his fist into the computer console several times. He pushed himself up out of his chair and paced, a hand covering his eyes. His mouth was severely down-turned, and his nostrils flared with tense inhalations.

“Is it too selfish?” Bruce asked. “Have I been too greedy? Is that it? I thought that I could save the faceless innocent masses and the people that I love all at the same time. I _was_ naive, like Harvey said. I thought that I had finally, _finally_ figured it all out, that I had a handle on this city. I was a fool.”

“Master Bruce … ”

“I was a _fucking_ idiot!” Bruce shouted. “It was too much. I wanted too much. I should have stayed alone. If I had been, Floyd Lawton would be in prison instead of out there killing people, Bobby wouldn't be so bitter that he's been driven to crime, and Harvey … Harvey … the Batman might have been able to save him. If I had been there as Batman instead of Bruce Wayne, I might have been able to save him. I could have saved him. I could have saved them all. I was a fool.”

Alfred was speechless. Bruce rarely swore, and he had not been this emotional in decades. It took Alfred a minute to compose himself.

“Mr. Dent was not the only one that suffered a trauma, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “You must consider yourself, sir. You must take care of yourself.”

“What difference does it make?” Bruce asked tiredly. “What difference does anything make?”

Bruce fell back into his chair. The myriad monitors blinked and blipped behind him. The Bat Cave felt colder than ever.

“I'm going to stake out the GCPD,” Bruce announced. “Harvey will come back. I know he will. And when he does, I'll … I'll stop him. Everything else can be figured out later. I just need to have him back.”

“Sir … ”

“Don't wait up for me, Alfred.”

“I'll be here to support you, sir. I always am.”

Bruce paused. He heard the note of pain in Alfred's voice.

“I won't lose sight of any of this,” Bruce tried to reassure him. “I won't cross any lines, and neither will Batman. I just … I have to do everything that I can to save Harvey. You understand, don't you, Alfred?”

“I know who you are, and I trust him, in the suit or out of it,” Alfred said. “ _You_ are the one I am worried for, Master Bruce. Mr. Dent is ill, I understand, but he has hurt you. He has betrayed you, twice. Please, do not give him the opportunity to do so again.”

“No, I know,” Bruce said softly. “That's why I have to face him as Batman this time. I hate it. God, I hate it more than anything. But … the next time we meet, it won't be as Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent. I know that. We have to meet as Batman … and Two-Face.”

* * *

Gordon was a wreck. He had watched all his allies crumble within the same span of time. That goddamned bastard Maroni had ruined Harvey, possibly for life. Bruce had been thrown into a state of shock nearly as bad, and to top it all off, Batman had vanished. Jim felt more alone than ever. Every time he held his wife and child close, he imagined what the city could do to them. Nonetheless, he kept worrying his wife by smoking nonstop. It was a vicious goddamn cycle, but he could not break it. Everything in the world felt wrong.

Case in point: Sal Maroni was being escorted back to his holding cell in the GCPD tonight. The asshole had taken three shots, but they had all gone straight through him. He would have less scars than Harvey. Jim believed in the law, but a part of him wanted to plug the man in the skull then and there. Instead, he threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with his shoe.

“Just get him inside,” he growled to the officers.

Maroni was pushed into the police van and the doors slammed shut. Gordon and a young female detective climbed into the front. Gordon took the wheel. The woman was attractive, bold-featured and strong. Her brow was creased, and she seemed deeply troubled. It was not very PC, but Jim felt he should say something to ease the young lady's worries. There were worse crimes than chivalry.

“Never getting outside again,” he said. “After what he did, Maroni will probably get the death—”

“It was my fault!”

Gordon raised his eyebrows. He struggled to keep his eyes on the road as the detective wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She did not let more tears fall, but stared morosely at her hands.

“I knew something was wrong, that day in the courtroom,” she said. “I couldn't tell what, but I just _knew_ it. They said that damned bottle had been checked by security, but if I had just double-checked, if I had said anything at all, the DA wouldn't be—be—”

“Hey, kid, don't beat yourself up,” Gordon said. “There was no way that anyone could have predicted that. Heads in the courthouse security department have rolled, but they all swore they never saw that bottle. It was the acting ADA, Wells. After Luis Castell went, Maroni must have placed his own mole in to take his place. Security never saw the bottle. We're looking for Wells, but he's gone to ground.”

“Sir, Luis is missing!” Renee said. “He didn't just leave, he and his parents have been missing for months! I tried to file a report, but I'm not family, and … and my partner, Bullock, he said I was being a drama queen.”

“Bullock said that, did he?” Gordon heaved a deep sigh. “I'll have to talk to him. What's your name, detective?”

“Montoya, sir,” she said. “Renee Montoya.”

“Montoya, you have good instincts,” Jim said. “I wish Bullock had listened to you enough to come to me, before—all this. There's no way that the disappearance of the Castell family and Maroni's mole Wells being placed in the ADA's role is a coincidence. I'll look into it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Renee said. “Luis was a friend. I've been worried about him. He's a good man. Good people are getting harder to find in this city.”

“Believe me, Montoya, I know,” Gordon said. “I'm probably old enough to be your father, so let me tell you, they were always rare enough. But you're right, it is getting harder to find a decent person here. I don't know. Sign of the times, I guess.”

“It's these freaks, sir,” Renee said. “I don't know about the Batman. I know you trust him. I, personally, don't know. But the others, the … Joker and those. They've infiltrated the GCPD _twice_. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, falsified his psych evals using that fear toxin. And the Riddler worked there for years! It's messed up. It's so messed up.”

“I, er, I was the one that brought Edward Nigma into the GCPD.”

“Oh! Oh, I'm, I'm sorry, sir.”

“Nah, don't be, I'm just as pissed off as you are,” Gordon said. “He was a troubled young guy when I brought him in. I never thought he'd turn out like that. Never thought Harvey would—Yeah. Something about this city just destroys goodness.”

“It's not your fault, sir.”

“Well, if I'm not to blame for Nigma, you're not to blame for Harvey.” Jim gave her a brief smile. “Get it?”

“Thank you, sir.”

They parked outside the GCPD. Maroni was unloaded from the back of the prison van and pushed into the precinct. They went in through the back door, to avoid being spotted by the press or Harvey Dent. The maximum security cells in the basement had been emptied out for additional secrecy. Gordon was not prepared to take any chances after what had happened to Dent. He wanted to kill Maroni, but he knew all he could do was make sure the bastard got the death penalty or went to jail for life.

One of the fluorescent lights was blinking and buzzing. Gordon cursed the budget cuts. The government spent less on the GCPD than Bruce Wayne did. It was a damn shame how greedy everyone at the top was. Harvey hadn't been out to line his pockets, and he had—

The lights went out.

“What the fuck!” Jim ejaculated. “Hey, get the power on! Goddamnit!”

“Who's there?” Renee's voice shouted.

Jim heard her grunt and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Similar sounds came from the rest of the team in quick succession. Gordon fumbled for his flashlight.

“Harvey? Is that you?” he asked. “Don't do this, Harvey!”

“Fuck you, Dent!” Maroni yelled. “You gonna come for me? Then come on! You stinkin' rat bast—”

Two shots, the report of the gun muffled. Jim tripped and fell against the wall. He shone his flashlight beam up, and could only gape in shock.

“You—no, you—you're—”

“I am Holiday.”

Alberto Falcone aimed his pistol, a .22 silenced with a baby bottle nipple, down at Jim Gordon. He fit Luis Castell's description: a man of medium height, thin, with a long coat and a dark suit. Tonight, he wore no mask, only glasses with round lenses of purple-tinted glass. His dark eyes were cold, and his hand was all too steady. Jim immediately knew that Alberto had not bothered with a mask because he did not intend to leave survivors. _Is this it?_ Jim wondered. _This is how it ends, huh? Labor Day, not even some big holiday like Christmas or Halloween. Christ._

The shadows shifted behind Alberto, and Gordon felt a twinge of hope. Could it be?

“You died,” Gordon said, hoping to stall for time. “New Years. You were killed.”

“No,” Alberto said simply. “But you are going to be. Good night, Commi—urgh!”

Gauntlet-covered hands wrapped around Alberto's neck and lifted his arm high above his head. The gun popped off uselessly. Batman smashed his gauntlet-covered fist into Alberto's midsection. Gordon could only watch in awe and horror.

 _He's small, so small, like his gun,_ Bruce thought beneath the mask. Alberto fought, but he was no combatant. Batman broke his right arm, and then his left wrist. The screams gratified him. _So many lives torn apart because of this small man and his small gun. The city is in chaos. Harvey lost his wife, and I lost Harvey. Harvey … Harvey … I lost Harvey because of this man. I **lost** him. I couldn't protect him. And it all comes back to Holiday._

Bruce and Batman both went blank after that. They had no desire to control the violence on this night, no belief that it _could_ be controlled. If Bruce could not tame it, he would indulge in it. If a force opposed him, he would simply _break_ it. His fists pumped like pistons of a machine. The yells grew dull, then ceased.

“Batman, that's enough!”

Batman looked up at Gordon. For a moment, he saw him as easy opposition. The instinct wore away quickly. He looked down at the battered piece of meat beneath him.

“I'm sorry,” Gordon said. “But I've got to stop you before you do something we'll both regret.”

Batman stood up off of Holiday. He stared down at the unconscious man for a long moment. Gordon held his breath.

“Then … you do what needs to be done,” Batman told him.

With that, Batman disappeared into the night. Gordon handcuffed Alberto, who was groggily coming back to life. He read him his rights. In his heart of hearts, it was all he could do not to shoot the bastard himself.

* * *

[September 5, 2015]

“FUCK! Oh, fuck! FUCKING HELL!”

Solomon Grundy lifted his head from his new treasure: a rusty old bicycle whose wheel he enjoyed spinning. The little creature he had taken in some time ago had been staring at the panel he had gotten for him and listening to the words the pictures said. Now he had flown to his feet and was frantically pacing around the abandoned maintenance room.

“How the fuck did they kill 'im?” Two-Face roared at the TV. “ _I_ was supposed to kill Maroni! ME! Not that fuckin'—Holiday!”

Two-Face removed the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He had ventured up to the streets to steal them and the lighter, since Grundy could not understand what a cigarette was (it had taken a great deal of sign language and frustration just to get the TV). He sucked down smoke and tried to still his shaking hands. Decrepit bandages hung off of the left side of his face, exposing a few splotches of bare muscle and purple, crumpled flesh.

“Solomon Grundy,” Grundy said sagely.

“Born on a Monday,” Two-Face said automatically. “No, no, this ain't right. No, maybe it is. Maybe it's just right. Maroni was only one, but there were _two_. One down, one to go. Yeah. Yeah, that's it. One down, one to go. Take 'em _both_ out.”

“Solomon Grundy,” Grundy agreed.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Two-Face stopped pacing in front of Grundy and looked down at him. The zombie had shared his home and food with him while he recovered his strength. Two-Face had developed a sympathetic kinship for the freak. He knelt down in front of the giant.

“Will you help me, Grundy?” he asked. “I can get you better stuff than this lousy bicycle. Whaddaya say?”

“Solomon … Grundy?”

“Born on a Monday,” Two-Face said. “You won't let anyone hurt me, right? We're friends, right?”

“Solomon Grundy!”

Two-Face thought he heard enthusiasm in his voice. He half-grinned.

“Yeah, and you're not the only freak in town by far,” Two-Face said. “Grundy, I think it's time for you and me to go topside. One down, one to go.”

* * *

Batman stared at Alberto Falcone through the double-sided glass of the interrogation room. He should have felt relief, satisfaction, anything, but he was numb. With random criminals, it was easy to not think of their random victims, easy to focus on the prize rather than the cost. But Bruce had seen the cost of this manhunt firsthand. He would have killed Alberto without a second thought if it would undo the damage Holiday had done. The thought chilled him, made him question everything he thought Batman stood for, but he could not deny it.

“Do you need anything?” Carmine Falcone asked in the interrogation room. “Some clothes, some food? Those glasses you like, with the purple lens? How about those? What do you want? Tell me.”

Alberto Falcone was smoking a cigarette as best he could with his hands in hard casts. He had his plain black-framed glasses on his bruised face. He stared coldly across the table at his father through them.

“No, _papa_ , I don't need anything from you,” he said. “Thanks.”

Carmine leaned across the table to whisper to his son.

“I can get you out of here,” he said. “Say you killed Maroni. So what? Everyone knows our families had a thing. All you have to do is give up this Holiday nonsense. That's all. I'll get you out of here, quick.”

“Bull. Shit.”

Carmine sank back into his chair. Alberto took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled smoke.

“I was born on a holiday,” Alberto said. “Do you remember which one? No? Was it … Halloween? Father's Day? Independence Day? Or maybe it was Mother's Day? Christmas?”

Carmine glanced at the double-sided glass nervously.

“Okay, just calm down.”

“I _will not_ calm down,” Alberto said.

Alberto's voice was clipped and educated. There was a deep, dark rage in him, but he never let it take control. He snuffed his cigarette out on the table.

“It was February fourteenth,” he said. “ _Valentine's Day_. Not that you would know. You always had business.”

Alberto stood up and glared down at his father.

“Every. Single. Year.”

“I thought you understood that,” Carmine said. “I thought you knew, all I've done, all I've _sacrificed_ , for you, and for Sofia! I've sweated and bled for you, for my children!”

“Oh, I _understand_ , papa,” Alberto said, sitting back down. “I understand. That's why you sent me to Oxford, isn't it? So that I wouldn't have to bleed and sweat, right?”

“Yes, yes, that's right.”

“Even though you let Sofia, my _sister_ , into the business, while you never asked for my help!” Alberto laughed. “You want me to believe that it was all for me? Really? Why don't you just admit it?”

“Alberto—”

“You never thought I was good enough to be your son!” Alberto exclaimed. “You never, ever thought I was good enough to even be your _associate_! Well, guess what?”

Carmine was dumbfounded by the seething declaration. Alberto leaned over the table, so their faces were close. Father and son, but they were worlds apart in every aspect.

“Gotham doesn't want your kind anymore,” Alberto said. “It doesn't want the old rules and the old standards and the old, stale codes of conduct. I came back, papa, and I came back to be _**bigger**_ than you! All of you! I'm bigger than you, bigger than Maroni, bigger than ALL of you! I am—HOLIDAY!”

Carmine sat stock still. On the other side of the interrogation room window, Batman walked out. If he stayed any longer, he knew that he would kill Alberto Falcone.

 _I missed it,_ Batman thought as he shut himself inside the Batmobile. _The answer was there all along, and I missed it. Almost an entire year has gone by, and I've been clueless, one step behind. It started with Floyd, and then there was Bobby, and finally … Harvey. I hurt all of them. I hurt them **all** by loving them. And I hurt Batman's hunt for Holiday by being distracted by all that drama. This can't continue. I can't be Bruce Wayne and Batman. Holiday proves it. _


	8. This Is Halloween

[October 31, 2015]

Selina Kyle shifted uncomfortably on her chair. Bruce Wayne sat in the armchair opposite, his head clutched in his hands. She had never seen the man so raw, and it disturbed her. She had seen plenty of men break, even enjoyed it sometimes, but she had not expected Bruce to come to her in this state of ruination. His eyes were miraculously dry, but she could tell it was only by a supreme effort of will. The young man had aged in the past year—not so much physically, but mentally. His naive passion and optimism were gone. His mouth was perpetually down-turned in a severe grimace, and his light blue eyes were cold. He had come to her and told her about Harvey's fate, and the conclusion of the Holiday killer case. As much as Selina expected the world to be cruel, something about seeing it do this to Bruce infuriated her. He was a grown man, but he reminded her of the many kids she had grown up alongside of, their hopes and dreams snuffed out one by one. Her own sense of childhood powerlessness returned, after so many years of banishment.

“I failed him,” Bruce said. “If I had been Batman—”

“You wouldn't have been allowed inside the courthouse at all,” Selina pointed out. “Bruce, I know it's easier to blame this on yourself, but it's not your fault. For once, I have to agree with Dent's philosophy: it was just chance, just bad luck. A million things could have stopped that attack from happening, and a million things went Maroni's way to allow it to happen. It was a pointless, evil, dumb act. It was … It was just as meaningless as your parents' murder.”

Bruce's head sank lower.

“I don't say that to make you feel powerless or to hurt you,” Selina said. “But … you have to accept that the world just doesn't respond to controllers like you, or morals, or the idea of deity, or Batman. Sometimes, it is just random.”

“No, no, I don't accept that.” Bruce stood, paced. “Harvey had problems, but he always chose to do the right thing. Maroni chose to attack him that day. He chose to do him harm. It was evil: pure, intentional evil.”

“It was vengeance.”

“What?”

“Look at this.”

Selina's red-painted long nails tapped the screen of her phone a few times. She stood close to Bruce to show him the screen. A recording of Harvey's confrontation with Maroni on Father's Day played. Bruce almost touched Harvey's immaculate face on the screen. He would give anything to see him, hold him, again. Yet the swaggering, sadistic man in the video was almost unfamiliar.

“Harvey … talked a lot,” Bruce tried to defend him. “Hell, I tried to get him to shut his big mouth, but that's just how he was. Maroni killed his wife. He had a reason for that vindictiveness.”

“You and I may know that, but Maroni didn't, and wouldn't have cared,” Selina said. “Harvey denied him the chance to bury his father. He was out for blood after that.”

“How did you get that footage, anyway?”

“A woman never reveals her secrets.”

Bruce sank down on the sofa again. Selina sat beside him. Bruce was not one for physical contact (unless it was sexual, she supposed), but he did not move away when she stroked his broad back. She was only a year older than he was, but her brutal origins had made her far more cynical. Sometimes, she hated being the voice of realism. Other times, times like these, she was relieved that her heart was calloused.

“Where is he, Selina?” Bruce said hollowly. “Where's Harvey? I thought after Maroni was killed he might surface, but there's nothing. You don't think he did something drastic, do you?”

“I have a feeling it won't be that—” Selina stopped herself from saying 'easy'. “—simplistic.”

“I hope not.”

An alert went off on both of their phones. They shared a look, then took up their cells. Carmine Falcone's private apartment building had reported a break-in. If the mob had dialed the police, the situation must be dire. Bruce left Selina's apartment, and Selina ran into her bedroom. She suited up, and minutes later, so did he.

* * *

Carmine had been throwing a tantrum in the meantime. Alberto's betrayal had shaken him to the core. He had spent his life defending Gotham against the “freaks”, and the idea of his own son choosing their side over his galled him.

“How DARE he betray me!” he raged to his daughter, Sofia. “My own son? After all I've done to protect him?”

They were in Carmine's study. He pushed everything on his desk off, letting it crash to the floor. Sofia could only watch in sad sympathy. Alberto had been her baby brother. She had not been allowed to coddle him, but she had enjoyed watching his tottering progress. She never dared tell her father, but she had found his inherent fragility endearing sometimes. She could not believe that he had grown up to be Holiday. A part of her appreciated the fact that he had grown up to have some manhood after all, but she shared her father's pain. Everything was supposed to be for the family, after all. Nothing was ever supposed to break the family apart.

“How could he?” Carmine asked. “My only son. My boy.”

Sofia felt a twinge of pain. Although she was her father's greatest enforcer, she knew that she was only a woman. Damn Alberto! If he had had half her physical strength and loyalty, he could have been Carmine's perfect heir! Why would he squander such an opportunity?

There was a knock on the door.

“WHAT?” Carmine roared.

The door creaked on its hinges. The secretary wobbled in. She was a petite brunette that Sofa suspected her father had screwed a few times. Her eyes were wide and terrified, but her lips were grinning.

“There's a—man—ha—here to see—haha! You! AHAHAHAHAHA!”

The woman twisted and fell to the floor. She twitched, and died.

“That clown!” Carmine exclaimed. “Sofia, shut the door! Don't let them—”

BOOM!

The room exploded in smoke. Sofia and Carmine “The Roman” Falcone passed out. Dark figures made their way into the office. The door was shut and locked after the secretary's body was unceremoniously kicked out of the way. The windows shattered then, and Batman and Catwoman arrived.

* * *

When Carmine Falcone awoke, he was restrained. He thought ropes were binding him, but then he realized they were—vines? He groaned and looked around his study. Everything had been blown to shit. In the wan moonlight, he recognized a gallery of freaks: Batman, Catwoman, Poison Ivy, the Mad Hatter, the Joker, and a blue-skinned giant he could not name. Behind his own desk stood Harvey Dent, half his face hideously disfigured by Maroni's acid attack.

“Trick or treeeat!” the Joker crooned.

“What is this?” Carmine muttered.

“What needs to be done,” Harvey Dent said smoothly.

“The hell are you talking about?” Carmine growled. “Freak.”

“Did you think that this could last forever?” Harvey asked. “Did you think that I would—that _we_ would let you go on splitting the city in half? Splitting it between your idea of good—and _**evil**_?”

There was a soft metallic ringing sound. Carmine watched a coin flip into the air from Dent's scarred left hand. He caught it neatly.

“You think I'd let you keep abusing the city?” Harvey asked. “ _ **My**_ city?”

“Harvey, that's enough!” Batman spoke out. “You don't have to do this.”

“Yes. Yes, I do, Batman,” Harvey said casually. “And I got the perfect weapon to do it with. A .22 caliber. Feels nice and light in the hand. Perfect to kill 'im with, don't ya think?”

“Fuck you,” Carmine spat. “I'll burn—I'll burn it all to the ground, before I let a freak have it!”

Carmine reached into his pocket and shot the vines off of himself. He rolled out of the way of Harvey's precise, slow shots to the cover of his desk. He quickly unlocked it and pulled out several small canisters. Pulling the stops out with his teeth, he hurled them into the office. Smoke exploded, blinding everyone.

Chaos ensued. It was all Batman could do to subdue Poison Ivy, Joker, and the Hatter. He was taken off guard by a giant blue man that body-slammed him into Falcone's desk. Pain reached him even through his suit. He grunted and went after the giant attacker. This man was even larger than Bane, but he lacked Bane's tactical intelligence. Batman brought down one of the study's massive bookshelves on him, and the thing did not move again.

“Heh heh,” Two-Face chuckled. He was at the far back of the room, his .22 pointed to Falcone's head. He flipped the coin again and again. “You missed one freak, Batman.”

“Harvey, this isn't you!” Batman tried to reason with him. “Stop!”

“This isn't your city,” Two-Face said. “Show him that it's not his fucking city!”

“Who made you the boss?” Joker grumbled.

Nevertheless, the freaks all surrounded Batman again. Selina looked at him. For a moment, he thought she wanted to join the other side. In the end, she joined him in the fight. It was a long, hard battle. The freaks were out for blood, as if they had something to prove. Batman felt the fate of Gotham shifting, and understood what Alberto Falcone had meant when he said that the old kind of criminals were done for in the city. Gotham was defined by these people that Batman was struggling to take down. Gotham City had become a freak show.

“ _ **I am**_ the boss now!”

The declaration interrupted Batman's moment of victory. He had just finished restraining the villains when Harvey's voice rang out. He sounded as loud and clear as he did in court, but his voice was more roughened by his native urban accent than ever before. He had put an arm around Carmine Falcone's neck, dragged him to the other side of the office. He held his .22 to the mob boss's head. Even the unblemished side of his face was twisted with hideous hatred.

“Har—Harvey?” Batman stammered. If not for the voice modification in his cowl, Bruce's pain would have given him away. “What are you doing?”

“What needs to be done!” he declared. “Heh heh. And it's not 'Harvey' anymore—It's _**Two-Face**_! Makes more sense, don't ya think?”

Harvey bowed his head, seemed to shake off something. When he looked at Batman, he was Harvey Dent again. There was sorrow in his eyes.

“After all,” he said softly, “I'm just another two-faced politician in the end, huh?”

Under the mask, Bruce froze again. He thought of the softness of the man's skin, his bitter grin, his needful smile, the way his hair curled when it was damp, the determined gleam in his inky blue eyes. Catwoman looked at him, knowing what was happening. She scowled, helpless.

“You're not,” Batman said. “You're better than that. You're better than them! We can still do this the right way, Harvey.”

“That's Gordon's way!” Two-Face snapped. “How many years has good ol' Jim been doin' it that way, huh? Even the guy that killed my lo—Even the shit that killed Bruce Wayne's parents is gettin' out in November! Don't you fucking get it? You let them go, they're just gonna keep findin' their way back to the streets. They're gonna kill and hurt again and again and again and again!”

“That doesn't mean that you can decide it all!” Batman snapped. “It doesn't mean you get to be judge, jury, and—”

“Not me!” Two-Face exclaimed. “Haha! No, not me. Never me. Never you. It's luck. Don't you get that yet? Don't you see how easily justice can be decided on the flip … of a coin?”

Harvey tossed his coin into the air as he spoke, never relinquishing his hold on the gun. He had refined the gesture into something disgustingly elegant. He caught it, palmed it, let it rest on his hand. Falcone's eyes went very round, then—two muffled shots rang out. Carmine slumped at Harvey's feet, blood trickling from his temple.

“Two shots to the head,” Harvey said. “Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.”

Under the mask, Bruce retreated. He could not reconcile this cold-blooded killer with the man he had loved so fiercely. The physical deformation meant nothing to him, but the blind malice (so like Joe Chill's malice) wounded him deeply. There was nothing more that Bruce Wayne could do for Harvey Dent. So, Batman attacked Two-Face.

“PAPA!”

Sofia Falcone shrieked like a banshee and lumbered after Batman. Catwoman pounced upon her. Her questionable ties to the Falcone organization made her feel sympathetic towards the ungainly enforcer.

“Don't!” she warned. “What's done is done! Let it go!”

“NOOOO! PAPAAA!”

“Don't, Sofia!”

Catwoman knew that Batman could not take on Sofia and Two-Face at the same time, not in the emotional turmoil he must be in. She hit Sofia in the throat, causing her to stumble back. Sofia caught her in a bear hug, and they fell through the broken window. Catwoman managed to disentangle herself from Sofia's arms, and used her whip to grapple onto the nearest ledge. She watched as the giant woman went plummeting to the ground.

“Sofia … ”

Inside the Falcone residence, Harvey stumbled back. He wiped blood from the side of his mouth. Batman could have used the moment to hit him again, but he only stepped towards him.

“You weren't this man!” he yelled at him. “You were good! You believed in Gotham, and Gotham believed in _you_! You're not this! You're not Two-Face! Think of your wife! Think of Gilda!”

“Gilda?”

Batman stepped closer.

“Yes, remember her,” he said. “Remember the man she loved. Remember the man I—trusted. Remember Harvey Dent.”

“Harvey, huh?”

Two-Face tossed his coin, looked down at the pistol in his hand. Then he punched Batman so quickly that the caped crusader had no time to see it coming.

“Nice try,” he said.

What did any of them mean to Two-Face? Nothing! Gilda had started all this Holiday crap. Batman had let it go on and on for the sake of his weak morality. Gordon had a stick up his ass whenever it came to working outside of the law. Bruce Wayne was the worst of them all, writing charity checks and thinking he knew what the world was about. Harvey might have depended on these screw-ups, but Two-Face didn't need them. Two-Face didn't need anyone. He was the one that Harvey had deferred to when he was alone in his darkest hours. He had protected them both then, and he would protect them both now. Two-Face needed no one. He thrived when he was alone. He always had, and he always would.

* * *

Vernon Wells considered himself a lucky guy. First, Luis Castell had disappeared without a trace, leaving the ADA's seat open. Then, Mr. Maroni had generously offered to get the Luis's position. Vernon had always thought he was the better candidate for the role. Luis was a pompous, snobby prig with his expensive fashionable suits and fine cologne. Vernon was devoted, he knew every word of every case—even if he never did fully understand the loopholes and twists that Luis used to find. He was a decade older than that little upstart. He deserved the promotion! And Mr. Maroni gave it to him, asking only that he pass him that bottle in return. A simple thing, really. He passed his lies off as consternation, and blamed the security department. He was new enough to be believed. If that obnoxious DA had suffered for his actions, who really cared? He was just another pretty face with no substance. What did those kinds of people know about hard work, anyway? They drifted through life on their Cloud 9s, adored by the city and everyone foolish enough to be swayed by—

The door to Vernon's office creaked open. He shifted his glasses up on his nose. The silhouette in the doorway looked odd. One large, staring eye looked at him without blinking.

“Who?” Vernon asked.

“You,” a raspy voice replied. “You have to answer for your crimes against Harvey Dent. I don't know what you did to get rid of Luis Castell or what you did to take his place, but I know Maroni was behind it all, wasn't he?”

“N—nuh—no!” Vernon stammered. “No, Castell was gone before—before Maroni even needed anyone on the inside! Not that I was—on the inside, I mean! The security department, they screened the bottle!”

“No, I've _visited_ the personnel on duty that night,” the figure said. “We had … revealing conversations. None of them ever saw that bottle. You sneaked it past security, and you gave it to Maroni. It's _your_ fault that Harvey is gone.”

“But he's not de—dea—”

Vernon's words died in his throat. The man standing before his desk was Harvey Dent—and it wasn't. Half of his face belonged to the beautiful District Attorney the press had named 'Apollo'; the other half was an abominatio of scarred and discolored flash. On the scarred left side, his eye went on staring without blinking. Vernon realized that his eyelid must have been burnt away completely.

“Please, please don't kill me, Mr. Dent!”

“Oh, come on, don't you know better?” Harvey scolded. “All those years in law school didn't teach you anything? Didn't teach you that justice has two sides?”

Harvey flipped the coin he had been running over his knuckles.

“One, untouched and pure. And the other … ”

Two muffled shots rang out.

* * *

Batman found the scene of Vernon Wells's murder shortly after it occurred. Under the mask, Bruce was grateful that he had had the foresight to protect Luis Castell. If Harvey Dent had known that Luis was the original Falcone mole while Luis was still in Gotham, there was no telling what he would have done to him. There was a coin left at the scene of the crime. It was only a quarter, but its 'tails' side had been crossed out. Two-Face had decided upon a signature.

Batman saw the Bat-signal shining outside of City Hall. He left the corpse of Vernon Wells and fled into the night. He expected to meet Gordon on the roof of the GCPD. Harvey “Two-Face” Dent greeted him instead. He was still wiping blood from one hand with a handkerchief. Under the mask, Bruce Wayne's heart clenched and his breath caught in his chest.

“I killed _two_ people tonight,” Harvey said without preamble.

“Harvey, why?”

“I did what needed to be done.”

“I will _never_ accept that.”

The rooftop access door was flung open. Jim Gordon ran up to them. They all stood in a circle, as if they were brainstorming a case together. Bruce yearned for those times; they had been fraught with their own danger and frustration, but Harvey had been on the right side then. Harvey had loved him then.

“Harvey, what the fuck did you do?” Gordon asked lamely. “Why, Harvey? Maroni was already dead. Why did you keep it going?”

“Keep it going?” Harvey laughed. “I _ended_ it, Jim! The Roman is dead. The mole is dead. The Long Halloween is over! I did what had to be done. There won't be anymore fixed psychological evaluations or bribed judges, no more disappearing witnesses. It's over. I ended it. I finally did something.”

Batman put both hands on Harvey's shoulders. He recognized the shift to docile submission. Harvey, Two-Face, neither of them would be a problem tonight. He wished that he could kiss him, despite his fury at the man.

“You betrayed everything that you stood for,” Batman told him. “Everything that _we_ stand for!”

“Not everything,” Harvey said.

“But we'll get you help,” Batman said. “We _**will**_ get you help. No matter what, we … we'll fix you, Harvey.”

“I ain't broken!” Two-Face laughed. “And you guys are the ones that're gonna need help! You'll see. No, you already see it, don't you? You see what this city has become! Batman's already a part of it! I ended one chapter, you think another one won't open up?”

Batman and Gordon could only stare at him. Harvey gave a broken, throaty laugh. He scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes, and then held his hands out.

“Okay, so, let's do this, Jim,” he said. “Arrest me. Let's see what farce you two still call 'justice' makes of Harvey Dent.”

Under the mask, Bruce fought the urge to stop the arrest. He had witnessed Harvey's crimes firsthand, but a part of him wanted to steal the man away and hold him close, try to fix him single-handed. He knew no amount of love or gentle discipline could save him, but he wanted to _try_. Even if they were half-ruined, he hated to think that he would never kiss those lips again.

“Hey, Batman.”

Batman turned to him. The sight of Harvey's hands cuffed behind his back brought back memories. The untouched side of his profile was handsome in the moonlight.

“My dad's house, there's a safe in the basement,” Harvey said. “You know, there wasn't just one Holiday killer—there were _two._ I want you to think about that.”

Batman said nothing. Gordon led Harvey into the GCPD to face his justice. Batman knew Harvey would be sent to Arkham Asylum: the man was clearly insane. Bruce Wayne would send his best lawyers to protect Harvey, just in case the state decided to turn on its White Knight. It was cold comfort.

* * *

Batman went to Harvey Dent's childhood home that night. Inside the safe, he found a .22 caliber pistol identical to the Holiday killer's. It had only been fired once. He brought it to the Bat Cave, and pondered Harvey's words for hours. Finally, the truth of the matter dawned on him.

“Jesus,” he swore. “His wife. Gilda. After his beating at the Falcone family wedding, she must have decided to do whatever it took to protect him. She bought the gun from the Chinatown shop, and murdered Johnny Viti on Halloween a year ago.”

Alfred was at Bruce's side in the Bat Cave. He watched Bruce get to his feet and pace. He had shut down all of his emotional facilities, relying upon his logic to stave off the pain of losing Harvey.

“Alberto must have been inspired by that first murder on Halloween,” Bruce went on. “He took up her MO and turned that one murder into a spree. He faked his own death on New Years' to escape scrutinization of the police and possibly his own family. That's why he had to kill the man that sold him the gun and his coroner. The coroner must have been bribed into falsifying the records. There was no body to be hidden. He would have gotten away with all of it, if I hadn't been watching the GCPD so closely.”

Bruce sank into the chair in front of all the monitors. He watched the news feeds and CCTV camera feeds without seeing anything.

“It wasn't worth it.”

“Sir?”

“Holiday could have burned down all the mob families in Gotham, and catching him still wouldn't have been worth it,” Bruce said. “Nothing was worth Harvey's sanity. Nothing. I know it might be selfish. I know Batman is supposed to defend the greater good. I know all these things, but that's not how I feel. All I feel is empty. I love him. I miss him.”

Alfred could think of nothing to say. Bruce stared into the monitors until his vision blurred. When he rubbed his eyes, there was moisture on his fingers.

“I can't be Batman and Bruce Wayne,” he said. “That's … very clear, after the past year. If Harvey can be saved, then maybe there is still hope for Batman. But until that day, I have to put everything I have into fixing Harvey.”

“Sir!”

“I know it's selfish, but … if I could go back and choose to save my parents or become Batman, we both know what my choice would be,” Bruce said. “Harvey once said that my losing my parents was a child losing the past, and him losing his wife was a man losing his future. That's how I feel. It wasn't perfect, but I thought that Harvey was my future. I thought we would battle everything, even his psychological demons, together. I even thought I might tell him that I was Batman someday. Now that's all gone. For now. Maybe just for now.”

Bruce scrubbed a hand over his face.

“In any case, I have to be 'Bruce Wayne' for Harvey right now,” he said. “I can't play both sides, or I'll end up as _two-faced_ as Harvey. I will do all that I can for him. I can't control everything, I understand that now. Love, it … it isn't enough. I thought that my love wasn't enough because I was a child, back then. Now I know better. It just isn't enough, period.”

“No, Master Bruce, I won't allow you to think that way!”

Alfred turned the chair so that Bruce faced him. Bruce looked up at his longtime servant and guardian in surprise.

“If love were not enough, then Batman would not exist,” Alfred said. “If your parents had not loved one another, and if they had not loved you, would their memory still be enough to inspire this crusade of yours?”

“It no longer _is_ enough,” Bruce said. “For now, the crusade—is over.”

Bruce stood and went to the computer. He typed some commands into the console. The mighty systems shut down one at a time. The monitors winked out like dying stars. The chair went into its chamber in the floor. The remote sections of the Bat Cave went dark. Alfred could only watch in helpless shock.

“Time to go, Alfred.”

They climbed the long stairwell up to the first floor of Wayne Manor. At the top of the stairs, Bruce shut off the rest of the lights. Below them, only darkness and silence, as if Batman's existence had only been a nightmare. Not even a single bat stirred.

 _I often worried so much about his safety that I wished for this,_ Alfred thought. _He will be safe now. He won't be risking his life every night in the city. Even if he cannot 'fix' Mr. Dent, he will move on, find someone else. Perhaps he can even be happy. If anyone deserves to have a normal, happy life, it's Master Bruce._

_So why does this feel so wrong?_


	9. Veterans of Battle (Epilogue)

[November 11, 2015]

Harvey Dent never made it to trial. He was declared mentally incompetent, and sent to Arkham Asylum. He languished in a solitary cell in the maximum security ward for over a week. He could no longer escape medication, and the drugs made him woozy, weak. He sat in his strait jacket on the padded floor, dreaming of better times. Sometimes he talked to Two-Face, who berated him viciously for turning them both in without consulting him.

This Veterans' Day, a new orderly opened the cell door. Harvey lifted his face, and was shocked to see Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce's loyal butler. Unwanted memories of his time spent with Bruce drifted through his mind.

“What are you doing here?”

“Something that I believe to be very unwise,” Alfred sighed. “Hold still, Mr. Dent.”

Alfred pushed Harvey onto his side. Harvey felt the prick of a needle in his upper thigh. He tried to ask what the hell was going on, but the injection must have contained a powerful sedative. His eyes rolled into his head and he fell unconscious.

Bruce Wayne entered the cell. He knelt down beside Alfred and Harvey. He took the untainted right side of Harvey's face in his hand, and turned his face one way, then the other. The hair that had been scalded off half of his head was growing back, but it was pure white and bristly. Oddly, the rest of his hair was still its usual dark brown color, soft and silky as ever. Though he was unconscious, his left eye remained open, as he no longer had an eyelid to close over it. The effect of that staring dark blue orb in the middle of his scaly purple and scarlet flesh was unnerving. The nerves around his mouth on the left side were deadened, so his lips curled downwards into a perpetual sneering expression. Another two-faced politician, he had said. Bruce kissed his forehead.

“Oh, Harvey,” he said miserably. “But it's all right. I'll fix you.”

“Shall we go, sir?” Alfred said anxiously. “It's only a matter of time before they find out that the security video feeds are on a loop.”

Bruce nodded. He slung Harvey over his shoulder and stood. They left, shutting the door on Harvey's empty cell.

* * *

When Harvey woke up, he assumed that he was still in Arkham Asylum. The cell looked a bit larger, but the floors and walls were padded. He was still in his strait jacket and the orange Arkham uniform. But was that a window? There had been no window at Arkham. Had they moved him to another cell? He liked the feel of the sunlight streaming down from the small round window high up on the farthest wall. As the daylight strengthened, he noticed that the angles of this room were also different. The window was a dormer window between two slopes of the ceiling.

When Alfred Pennyworth came in, Harvey remembered everything. He questioned the old butler, but Alfred said nothing. He loosened the strait jacket, then left Harvey with a tray of food. Harvey freed himself of the restraints. He wanted to see what was going on, but he was starving. He devoured the food, and then made his way around the room. The door was heavily barricaded, but it was not one of the steel institutional doors of Arkham. A door had been removed on the far side of the room, and he found a bathroom set into a niche. The toilet was new, steel, and screwed into the floor. The mirror was plastic and screwed to the wall. There was a plain bathtub basin, but no shower. The toothbrush was ridiculously large, like a child's, too chunky to use as an effective weapon. There were no razors.

When Harvey returned to the main area, he found Bruce Wayne waiting for him. He was tense, guarded. Harvey just stared at him.

“Why are you here, Bruce?” he asked. “What is this?”

“I'm going to help you, Harvey,” Bruce said. “I'm going to help you _myself_. You always said that I was a control freak, well, I admit it: I am.”

“Where is this?” Harvey asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

“Wayne Manor,” Bruce said. “An attic room, specifically.”

“You—You set all this up?” Harvey asked incredulously. He wandered around the makeshift padded cell. “I don't believe this. You broke me out of Arkham? Are _you_ nuts?”

“I have more psychiatric training than most of the doctors at Arkham,” Bruce said. “As you never allow me to forget, I have the means to supply you with anything that you need. Alfred is more than capable to assist me.”

“But why?” Harvey asked. “Why would you do this?”

Bruce closed the distance between them. He took Harvey's face into both hands, one palm clutching smooth skin and the other chaffing rough, ruined muscle. Harvey tried to move away, self-conscious, but Bruce held him in place. Harvey's one good eye went as wide as the other when Bruce kissed him. Only half his mouth was capable of returning the kiss.

“I still love you, Harvey, that's why,” Bruce said. He stroked the damaged side of the man's face carefully. “This is just temporary. When you're able, I'll find the best plastic surgeons in the world. There is great work being done repairing nerve damage, as well. You'll be Harvey Dent again someday, you'll see.”

“I don't wanna be Dent!” Two-Face suddenly exploded. He hit Bruce's hands away and stormed away from him. “What was Dent ever good for? What did he ever accomplish? Not half as much as I did on Halloween night! _I_ ended the Long Halloween! _I_ ended The Roman! Why the fuck would I want to go back to bein' that good-for-nothing Harvey Dent?”

“Because you _are_ Harvey Dent,” Bruce said sternly. “Two-Face may be a part of you, but you're still Harvey Dent. I won't ever let you forget that.”

“You're the one that better forget about it!” Two-Face snarled. “Ha! But I guess I should thank you. I've got work to do, and now I'm free of Arkham! Guess you came in handy after all, Brucey.”

Two-Face attacked him, but Bruce was prepared. He blocked his heavy blows and restrained him. Two-Face surprised him by smashing the back of his head into Bruce's face. Bruce's nose exploded with blood and he grunted. He was dizzy by the time he had Two-Face under control again, his arms pinned behind his back on the soft floor.

“Rrraagghh! Lemme GO!” Two-Face roared in outrage. “Damn you, Wayne! You fuckin' bastard! You can't do this to me!”

“I can. I will.”

Bruce took out a syringe and plunged it into the man's buttocks. Two-Face struggled more violently than ever in the moment before the drug took effect. _I'll have to be more careful, and get better restraints,_ Bruce thought. _Harvey was a fit man, but Two-Face's strength is double his, at least._

“Bastard,” Two-Face mumbled. “Bastard.”

He was limp, so Bruce released him. Two-Face slumped on his stomach on the floor, holding his head in his hands. Bruce wiped blood from his nose on a handkerchief, sniffing.

“You can't do this to me,” Two-Face scowled at him. “You sadistic, control freak, sick, twisted son-of-a-bitch. I ain't Harvey, you hear me? I won't let you keep me like some fucking pet. I don't love you, and I never will.”

“We'll see about that.”

“Asshole,” Two-Face mumbled. He tried to rouse himself from the encroaching fatigue. “You fucking asshole. Your parents are lucky that they were gunned down before seein' their kid turn out to be a fucking freak.”

Bruce gave the man a hefty swat on the seat of his orange Arkham-issued pants. Two-Face trembled with mortified rage. He tried to get up, but fell back down again. His muscles had turned to jelly.

“Get some rest, Harvey,” he said. “I'll talk to you again when you've calmed down.”

“I'll _kill_ you for this!” Two-Face yelled, pounding a fist on the padded floor. “I'll fucking kill you, Bruce Wayne!”

Bruce left him there. Alfred was waiting anxiously in the hall.

“How did it go, sir?”

“As well as could be expected, Alfred,” Bruce said. “Two-Face is out for my blood. But Harvey is still in there. He kissed me back. I felt him there, loving me like he always did. He's still in there, so he can still be saved. I just have to work on controlling Two-Face. Harvey has to learn to be the dominant personality. If he can get that far, then he has a chance.”

“Do you really think so, sir?”

“I have to believe that,” Bruce said. “It's the only thing I have left to hope for.”

“Very well, sir.”

* * *

That night, Jim Gordon stood alone on the GCPD rooftop, staring at the sky. The Bat Signal had been glaring into the night for hours now. He took a drag on his cigarette, swore. The door to the roof opened. Renee Montoya came up to him.

“He didn't answer tonight, either, sir?”

“No,” Jim said wearily. “No, he didn't.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“It's just 'Jim', Montoya,” Jim said for the hundredth time. “And I'm sorry, too. I think what happened to Harvey Dent broke something in him. I thought the Batman was all hard edges and strength, but he must have cared for Harvey as much as I did. Or maybe he's just chasing Dent down. I can't believe he escaped from Arkham.”

“Or maybe Batman took him out of Arkham,” Renee suggested hesitantly. “The tech used to fool the security systems was similar to Batman's equipment. Do you think he might have taken him out and—well, ended him?”

“Batman doesn't kill, Montoya,” Jim said. He paused. “No. No, I can't believe that. I don't want to believe that. That would be too much. No, I think Harvey's still alive. All I can hope is that Batman is chasing him. I would hate to think he's given everything up.”

“So would I.”

“But wherever he is, he's not here,” Gordon said. “It looks like we're on our own from now on. It's going to be a long, cold winter. A very cold season, this year.”

Jim threw his cigarette on the floor and snuffed it out with his shoe. He gave the Bat Signal one last forlorn look, and then shut it off. The night was suddenly very dark, indeed.

– **End –**


End file.
